


The Dreams Of Living

by FireNinjaDagger



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Other, Romance, dreams of living
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:49:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireNinjaDagger/pseuds/FireNinjaDagger
Summary: Soulmates AU: Person A has the first words they'll ever exchange with their soulmates tattooed on their wrist while person B as the last words. Because of these tattoos, there is no experience of disappointment or rejection or heartbreak. At Least, they were supposed to be safe from experiencing it. It never occurred to Nikki at any point in his life he would be the outlier.





	1. Prologue

When did I wake up and fall back asleep?  
When the rhythms of life became patterns of dreams?  
When my eyes saw too much so they blocked it all out?  
When I quit before trying to see through the doubt?

I'll ask and I'll beg and I'll plead to the sky,  
When all that I want in life is to hear is a lie.  
Because I know when it happened, I know my own heart,  
I know that the end begins at the start.

The blackest of nights is the longest of days,  
Whereas "longest" is subject to time and to change.  
Canvases stand up to mock their own space,  
Emptiness becomes a part of my face.

How do I heal a heart that's already long gone?  
It's like creating a color that's never been drawn.  
How do I know if I had one at all?  
I guess by feeling the hole when I built every wall. 

So to bring back that heart and those feelings as well,  
I'll have to climb out of my bodily cell.  
Looking for answers is hard to define,  
You search for your freedom and still stay confined.

Your death may be far, but you don't know all truth.  
Your death happens to others, and doesn't belong to you.  
So sing through a phrase that's a phase in your time,  
And paint away strokes you think no longer rhyme.

Rebirth is the thought that your life can begin,  
Even though it ended again and again.  
I may not see light, but I stand in the shadow,  
And where there is shade there will be sun to follow.

But your life's not your own, this is all about giving,  
Your hope and despair are just the dreams of living.

 

~Lynnie Schuyler

 

        How many people have you clandestinely admired but never apprised? All the kind or chivalrous or attractive passersby you for a moment lived a short romance within your head and all the high school crushes you’ve had but never pursued. Maybe it was one of the superstar athletes or your lab partner in science or the one kid who could play 9 different instruments or the person you sat next to in study hall or the boy you could talk to forever about any book or the girl who was really good with computers. The attractive cashier who checked you out at the store or the handsome waiter who served you lunch or the guy reading next to you on the subway dressed very nicely or the girl who walked past you down the street wearing a lovely perfume. The person with the prettiest of smiles or the bluest of eyes or the most luscious hair sweeping over their flawless face. Maybe you heard someone laughing and it was so contagious you ended up doing just the same. Or the kid who had a solo so magnificent you felt something deep inside. Or you saw someone drawing a sketch so evoking of emotion you yourself felt something towards them. How many people have you sat next to and have exchanged friendly drivel but over the course of time, the boundaries between playful banter and amorous conduct have blurred? How many people, whether it be for a moment or for years, have you clandestinely admired but never dared to tell them? The answer: you haven’t the slightest idea because there are simply far too many.  
        So I ask you another question and this time you will have somewhat of an answer. How many people have clandestinely admired you? Of course, you couldn’t possibly know, considering they have never told you and it was a secret admiration. But I promised you would know “somewhat of an answer” and I always keep my promises. The number of admirers you’ve had is tantamount to the number of people you’ve admired. So you know you won’t have the slightest idea because there are simply far too many.  
        I have not once faced this dilemma of minute long cognitive romances nor have I experienced this puerile crush business, in fact, no one ever has. For us, love is black and white, yes or no. There is no hesitation and especially no secrecy from each other when we find the one, our true love,  our soulmate. With our kind of love, there is no confusion or uncertainty or complications. There is only clear and simple, requited love, therefore there is no experience of disappointment or rejection or heartbreak. At Least, we were supposed to be safe from experiencing it. It never occurred to me at any point in my life I would be the outlier.


	2. My Name is Nikolaevan Brooks

        I blame my parents for the horrendous first name. Let’s be clear on this matter. If I could have a normal name like Jacob or Marc, I would be very thrilled. And I’ve heard the argument how it’s annoying to have the same name has the seven other people in the room but it’s terrible having to always correct someone 3-5 times how to say your name whenever you meet someone new. Each school year becomes such a drag going through attendance. By March, the teacher still can’t say it correctly and every time there’s a sub, it’s a giant fiasco. Maybe it’s just because I don’t like being put on the spot, even if it’s for 20 seconds, which is why I’ve made a great effort by the fourth grade to start going by Nikki. I never really liked my peers addressing me the same manner my family does but that was the best I had at the time. Then in middle school, there was this asshole named Nick. I started hating being called Nikki because he tainted my name. I then wanted to go by Cole although no one seemed to understand that it’s in the middle part of my name. Ni-cole-lie-a-van. No matter how hard I tried to change my name, Nikki was stuck. If I ever get a chance, I’d want people to call me Cole. Until then, I’m just Nikki. 

        We are all born different with a unique combination of traits making us original. None of us can control how we are born, it is beyond our power and in the hands of fate. Some of us have brown eyes while others have blue. I myself have a hazel green, but not the pretty kind, the kind that resembles dying plants and the end of life. There are skin colors of all shades and having Russian and German heritage, I naturally have extremely fair skin. There are people born with platinum blonde hair all the way to jet black, I myself am towards the dark end of the spectrum with a deep chestnut color. We grow up with different heights and I expect to stop at around 5’10”. And each of us has a unique tattoo since the day of our birth, a phrase or simply a single word. Everyone has a tattoo because everyone has a soulmate. One soulmate has the last words they ever exchange while the other has the first they'll ever say to each other. Whether we have the beginning or end, we won’t know for sure until we meet them.  
        As a young child, we learn the most basic knowledge like how to sing the alphabet, how to count numbers, and how to read our tattoos. Everyone by the age of five is a master of the ABC’s, 1-100, and how to audibly identify word for word our tattoo on instinct without needing to check our wrist because if we hear it, a shout or a whisper, it means we have found our soulmate. And when you find them, you don’t let them go.   
        Of course, the mind of a five-year-old can comprehend the letters and the concept out counting is perspicacious but they are too young to grasp the full understanding of our tattoo’s meaning. It is something we understand with time. By high school, that’s when we are aware of what it means more or less completely. It’s very unlikely to see relationships in high school. Unless two people have been blessed to meet them early in life to have maximized their time together, high school relationships are juvenile volition. It is foolish to voluntarily engage in a relationship with one who is not destined to be yours. It only entices pain and distraught upon oneself. But it is better to grow out of these irresponsible habits at an earlier age rather than later when the repercussions will be much more severe. I know better than to involve myself romantically with anyone who isn’t my soulmate. I know I haven’t found them because I have yet to hear someone say my tattoo. 

 

“you're my happiness you always have been”

        I’ve always felt my tattoo is the last phrase. They always say to never assume you have the second half. If we live thinking someone else will come find us instead of making sure to search for love ourselves, then we may miss the greatest phenomenon that would ever come to our life. But mine is so evident to be the last words someone would say and I find it both beautiful and heartbreaking. How could it not be the last because if we never met them until we say our tattoo, then how I have already always been their happiness? A stranger couldn't really say that unless it was staged for some reason but I didn't want to believe it. Bottom line, I’m a sucker for happy endings. Typically not seen in a boy but I guess I’m untypical. 

        For nearly the last 18 years of my life, it’s been very repetitive. There’s been an undying routine. Wake up at the sound of the alarm, get ready, dress, eat, go to school, take the same classes in the same order at the same time intervals, go home at the same time, do the same hobbies, eat again, sleep, repeat. Wake up, go to class, go home, eat, sleep, repeat. Wake up, do stuff, sleep, repeat. Every day, it’s been the same undying routine. Starting out in kindergarten, it didn’t seem so bad. As the years progressed, the schedule became more complex and draining until I was stuck in a loop known as high school and after four years, one suffers a bad case of senioritis. The overwhelming amounts of mental strain and emotional exhaustion among the entire body of students depletes work ethnicity. There is a lack of studying and completion of work and sometimes the ability to find motivation to come to school entirely yet we all manage to get by hanging onto our passing grades by mere threads. No one gives a shit about anything anymore because we’re all too tired to care. Stakes are high but hope is strong because we are just a month away from receiving the only known cure: graduation.

        April is the Thursday of the school year; you’ve come so far and now you desperately want it to be over already. The point of time occurs when you know it’s 5:59; there’s one minute left and you spend it waiting dreadfully for the alarm to sound. You’ve passed beyond exhausted long ago and it physically hurts you hearing the beginning of the alarm break the silence. There’s a moment between the alarm blaring and shutting it off where you feel the physical pain of tiredness. No amounts of sleep could ever recuperate the hours you’ve lost and you’re in such a deficit of energy simply inhaling require too much effort and you're straining to breathe. April contains the last bits of the gloomy, dreary weather, weather that reflects the gloomy, dreary society. When we have to wake up at ungodly hours to go to work or school, there’s a dead haze over us all. Everyone stares ahead vacantly zoned out and incoherent. After the 3 cup of coffee, there is still a universal deficiency of life among the living.   
        April 12th, graduation is less than a month away. We’ve already had spring break a fortnight ago. The only hope we have is that today is Friday and it’s a late start. My school has late starts through the year, meaning first hour starts at 9:45 opposed to 7:00 am and our classes are shortened. It’s the first late start we’ve had in two months and it was a good sign things were looking to be less lugubrious.   
        My 6:00 alarm is Aerosmith so I know it’s a good sign when my alarm plays U2 instead at 8:30. Hearing a different song after months of the same one is almost refreshing. Opening my eyes, sunlight pours into my room and I can see the sky. The blanket slides down as I sit up but the atmosphere doesn’t send me crawling back under my covers. My room is warmer, making it a lot easier to leave my bed. I sit up and I don’t feel like an 80 year old man with osteoporosis for once. Stretching out, I feel refreshed and not dead. “With or Without You” continues playing as I get up, my mattress giving a creak. I slip out of my long sleeve and track pants then put on my slacks and a clean shirt. I hum along while rolling up my sleeves to my olive cargo jacket. If my eyes were a little less brown and a little more this shade of green, it would be a lot more tolerable. I’ve always had a love for olive green or blue greens. My hair decided to cooperate with me today. There are times I wake up with it standing up on end like Flock of Seagulls.   
        By now, U2 has played twice so I shut off my alarm when I hear my brother hollering for me from his room. “Nikki! There’s like light and stuff outside!” he exclaims followed by a few thuds, which I assume is Roman hopping over his cluttered room to make it to the door. I head into the hallway and his door two over from mine swings open. Roman looks up at me ecstatic.   
        I laugh at my brother’s excitement, recalling the countless times of him half-asleep in the passenger seat of my car as I drive to school. In the car, Roman would ramble somnolently about how he preferred seeing the sun on the way to school while slowly falling back asleep. It’s only an eight-minute drive in which he can take a mini nap but he believes those eight minutes are worth it. Then again, I believe the one minute at 5:59 before my alarm goes off is worth it so I have no room to judge. “Looks like you go yourself some sunlight,” I say with a laugh.   
        Roman smiles at me. Roman is the freshman version of me. Tiny in size, short cropped hair with a tuft of bangs that technically isn’t considered bangs, braces over his almost straightened out smile. I mock him for being rather short but I know one day he’s going to outgrow me. His hair is the same shade of chestnut as mine and facially, we look very identical. We both have our mother’s dark hair and colored eyes. Though his eyes are greener than anything, a rather nice green, no dreary hazel to taint the color. The only other main difference between us is his hair is cropped while mine is rather long with bangs disheveled over the upper left side of my face. “It’s looking to be a good day,” he says, “and happy birthday.”  
        I smile sincerely. “Thanks, come on. Let’s go eat.”  
        My mother made raspberry vatrushka for me. The two of us sit together enjoying our little breakfast. My favorite dish would be these pastries. We rarely have it because my mother’s recipe takes her five hours to make between prep time, letting the dough rise, cooking it, and decorating but I think it’s all worth it. My mother knows how much I personally love it when she makes it, so she always makes me some on my birthday and she also promised to make some when I leave for college.   
        The two of finish up and I take his plate to the sink. This will be one of the last few days I can enjoy a morning like this with my little brother before going to school. He’s a freshman and I’m a senior. We might have one more late starts before the year ends. Then he’ll be a sophomore and I’ll be the freshman but in college. “Roman, finish your orange juice,” I tell him.   
        He looks at it. “You know, you really rubbed off on Mom telling me that,” he mutters.   
        “You didn’t have to pour yourself that much and I’m not letting you waste it. It’s not good to waste food and you know that.”  
        He glares at me while chugging the rest of it. “There, happy?”  
        “Sure,” I mutter, taking it from him to rinse it off. 

        We get to school around 9:38 and I park the car up front. “Alright, see you after school,” I tell him and we go our separate ways. Of my day, the only classes that matter to me are my English and art ones. In 2DII, I sit with a good group of people where can all just laugh and insult each other’s artwork together. And then in my AP Lang class, we just read classic literature and write essays to practice for the exam. Maybe because I’m good at writing I like English or simply I like writing and that’s all we do. Saying that I was to be a graphic novelist when I’m older would explain a lot on why I enjoyed art and English.  
        I find creating stories so fascinating. I have the power to create another world and bring people to life. I’m good at drawing and I like writing so graphic novelist would be the perfect job for me, at least I would like to think it would be. I don’t really like telling people what I what to do, considering they feel entitled to give me their opinions, which I did not ask for. I understand if you curiously want to know but if you’re going to ostracize me or inform me of all the better jobs I could do, I don’t want to hear it. Yes, I understand it’s hard work and maybe not well paying as other jobs but I’d rather do something I enjoy than work miserably to earn a surplus of money I have no desire for. I think the only people who know would be Roman and my best friend Roy.  
        Leroy Karpwood has been my best friend for years. In second grade, my class had pen pals with another school. One week we wrote to them and then the next they would write back to us. At the end of the year, we were supposed to go on a field trip to meet our pen pals but for whatever reason, it never happened. Everyone was bummed out, mainly because they wanted a field trip but I was devastated because my pen pal was a really cool guy. He wanted to be a rock star and thought I’d be the best comic book writer. I also didn’t really have a lot of friends but Leroy was really nice to me in the letters, I thought because it was a school assignment but turns out he genuinely liked me. Second grade ended and everyone forgot about their pen pals but not us. We made these super cool emails and gave it to each other in our last letter exchange. Looking back on those email addresses, they’re the definition of cringe. Thankfully my brain has blocked it out from my memory for my own sanity. Over the years, we were talking about going to middle school after fifth grade. As fate would have it, we attended the same middle school and had math together. It was weird meeting someone for the first time while also knowing everything about them. It’s now the end of senior year and the two of us are still best of friends.   
        Roy is the only one who was always incentive to me about wanting to be a comic book writer and I was the only one who believed he would be a famous rock star. We don’t mock each other for our dreams. We never tell each other it was impractical or callow of us; we encourage each other, which is probably why we haven’t outgrown our childhood dreams like most kids do. Of course there were plenty of discouraging others to tell us it’s not a practical career but we at least had someone to remind us those people do not have a say in what we do with our lives. Maybe if they got to be a police officer or a ballerina like they wanted when they were children, they wouldn’t be the bitter people they are now working eight hours a day in a cubicle.

        In art, my table-as much as I insist for them to not-sang me happy birthday and one of the girls brought homemade cupcakes for everyone at our table. Lunch, Roy told me about this movie he wanted to see and I told him we were probably going out to dinner tonight and he was welcome. Math, there was a test and in English, we had to write an essay in the difference between an outlier of society being an exception or an aspiration. The final bell rang out and I headed out the main doors.   
        The weather has been bitter for months but now it’s beautiful outside. There aren’t clouds to conceal the sun and the wind isn’t bitter but rather cooling and most of all, it’s actually warm. Okay, maybe 45 degrees doesn’t classify as warm but since February, the highest it’s been was around 20 degrees.   
        “Nikki!” I turn around as Roman runs over with his backpack bopping over his shoulder. I wait for him to catch up with me before walking with him. “Hi,” he says.  
        “Hi,” I reply. “How are you?”  
        “Good. Funny thing happened,” he starts off chuckling, “so like, Patrick sat next to me in world history and we were typing our papers. Well, my computer froze and I got that blue screen of death and all these numbers were going across my screen. I was panicking and Patrick was like ‘I got this!’ and he slammed his fist into the keyboard and then everything just went away. It was so funny and then he said ‘I don’t know what you did and I don’t know what I did but I can’t repeat what         I did so you don’t repeat what you did’ and then Millie just started cracking up.” Roman is practically falling over while telling me this. “It was SO funny!”  
        “I can imagine,” I laugh then unlocking the car. When I turn on the engine, I roll down all the windows flooding the car with fresh air. 

        We get home and my mother is in the sitting room on her laptop. “Hi, how was school?” she calls out to us when she hears the door open.  
        “Good,” my brother and I say in a monotonous unison.   
        “What’d you do?”  
        “Nothing,” we both say together again.   
        My mother gets up and comes over to us. “You did nothing, huh?” she says with a half smile. She gives me a hug and kisses my forehead. “Happy birthday, Nikolaevan,” she tells me. “When your father comes home, we’re leaving to dinner.         You want to invite your friends?”  
        “Roy?”  
        She looks at me again with her half smile. “You asking or telling me?”  
        “I don’t know,” I answer.   
        “I assume you already mentioned it to him.” I give a nod. “Alright, go do your thing. Roman, finish your homework.”  
        “Uh, why you do tell me to do my homework but Nikki can do whatever?” he says marching to his room leaning back as if his backpack was pulling him down to the floor.   
        “Because I know you won’t do it unless I tell you,” she answers.   
        “Fine,” he sighs.   
        I go to the kitchen with my mom and I grab more vatrushka. “How was your day?” I ask before taking a bite.   
        “Ah,” she sighs while thinking, “well, it wasn’t a bad day that’s for sure. But an idiot blew through the stop sign by the office and hit one of my coworkers. They’re okay but still, unfortunate it happened.”  
        “Oh, that’s not good,” I remark, hopping on the counter between the sink and microwave where I usual perch myself in the kitchen. “You know the person who hit them?”  
        “I don’t but they’re definitely in trouble.” She glances at me and smiles. “You like the vatrushka?”  
        “Yes,” I say firmly. “Can you just make these every day?” I ask.  
        “I would if I had time,” she says.  
        “Here’s an idea. You quit your job so you have time and then you just sell them and make millions off your business.” She starts laughing lightheartedly. “Think about it,” I say with a smirk.   
        “I doubt millions but I appreciate your enthusiasm.” She starts putting away the dishes I washed this morning while humming softly to herself. Her dark hair has a few strands fallen out of her ponytail and if she wore makeup with morning, she took it off. She changed out of her work suit and is wearing blue jeans and a magenta long sleeve.   
        I stare longing across the counter at the rest of the pastries. “You can have more,” my mothers says.   
        “Yeah, but then I won’t have as much for later,” I mutter slightly pouting.  
        “Well then save it,” she says while putting the dry pans in the bottom cupboards.  
        “Yeah, but I want more now.”   
        My mother stands up and looks at me slightly questioning. “What exactly is the dilemma?”  
        “It’s kinda like yeah,” I mutter.  
        “What? Nikki, that is not a sentence.”  
        “I know.” She stares at me waiting to say something she’ll understand. “I can’t have my cake and eat it too,” I say. “Mom, I have no self-control. Tell me I can’t have anymore.”  
        “Fine. Nikki, you can’t have anymore.”  
        “Thank you,” I reply, hopping off the counter and putting them in the fridge. As I leave the kitchen, I hear her laughing quietly to herself. 

        My parents met in college their junior year. They sat next to each other in an 8 a.m. lecture about classic literature. My father fancied my mother’s beauty and it took him three days to come up with a clever line to finally talk to her and he famously said: “Do you mind if I stare and admire you for a minute?” My mother completely fell out of her chair and hit her head when she heard him say that. He then fell terrible for causing her to fall and their professor instructed him to help her to the nurse to get an ice. As he helped her down, he proceeded to apologize greatly and he didn’t mean to offend her for saying that. But that’s not why she fell out of her chair. My dad understood what happened when she showed him her wrist. “do you mind if I stare and admire you for a minute” The two of them rejoiced and have been happy ever since. I like hearing the story how they met, it warms my heart.   
After they graduated college, they shared an apartment. They didn’t marry until they were more or less financially stable with jobs related to their career. They had me when they were 28 and a few years later, they had Roman. Because they were expecting another child, we moved out of the apartment and into the house we live in now. 

        Friday, May 10th: my last day of high school. When Aerosmith play this morning, I don’t feel tired. I don’t feel irritated or excited or depressed. I don’t feel anything but at the same time, I feel it all way too much. Today is the day, the day I’ve been waiting for since age 5. We are prepared our whole lives for this single day, 12 years of school all for this day. But at the same time, it feels like just another Friday.   
        I dress feeling rather ambivalent. I was so excited to finally be free, to be done, for it to all be over but at the same time, I don’t want it to be over. I will never have to put up with these morons at my school but I’m never going to see my friends again every day. I hate all my stupid assignments I have no care about but now any work I don’t feel like doing will have heavier consequences. I’ll never have to worry about grades but now I have to worry about a job and money. The life I’ve known will finally end at 3 o'clock today but at 3 o’clock today, the life I’ve been waiting for will finally begin.  
I dress, I eat, I wait for Roman to hurry up, and we go to school. The drive is quiet, mainly because I’m too lost in thought for conversation and Roman is taking his eight-minute nap, nothing out of the norm.   
        I go through my day doing absolutely nothing besides running rampant with my friends, dumping hundreds of ping pong balls down the halls and staircases as a senior prank, and saying goodbye to every single person I have known for years of my life. The only person I can soundly say I’m going to see after high school is Roy, mostly because we’re going to the same college and he’s been my best friend my whole life. 

        Sitting in my room, I go through my belongings one last time. Over the years, I’ve gotten rid of many things but there’s still enough left to reconstruct my childhood. My teddy bear from when I was a toddler with a cerulean blue ribbon around his neck, which I thought was the greatest color and to this day cerulean blue is still my favorite color. I find all the awards I was given over the years: Honor roll certificates, 8th grade recognition, perfect attendance in 2nd and 5th grade, “most artistic” nomination, freshmen year science fair award, all of my piano performance ribbons between ages 9-16, elementary school “leadership” award, 7th grade to senior year art show awards. I find old sketchbooks with some drawings of my favorite shows and books and I can see the progression of my art styles over the years. I find a wooden box I made and I open it up to find three crushed acorns I remember smashing some when I was 11 because I wanted to know what squirrels eat but then my mother was knocking on my door. I quickly hid my autopsy and here I am now rediscovering it. I dump out the acorn bits in the trash. This box it in pretty nice shape, minus the potent peanut butter scent. I find a huge cardboard box and inside is all the best work I did in school. Inside is my alphabet book I made in kindergarten and a “I Know My Presidents” book from fourth grade, there’s my 7th essay on Florence Nightingale and poem in third grade I wrote about things that are blue, my artwork from high school, and I find some of the letters Roy sent me before met and we were just pen pals. I lean back in awe over these letters. The paper is old and yellowed with age. The scrawly graphite scribed on big lined paper creased and crinkled. I see the date in the upper right-hand corner dating back ten years ago and I’m astounded. 

 

“Dear Nikolaevan,  
It’s super rad you’re gonna be a be a comic book writer. I’m gonna be a famous rock and roller with a guitar. My big brother has an electric guitar and it’s very cool. I’m sad we can’t go on the field trip too but I like your idea of the secret emails. That way we don’t need the school to talk and stuff. So this is our last letter so I’m gonna use the email you gave me to talk to you. The codeword is ‘Lexington’ so you know it’s me. (P.S. I don’t know what that means. It was in a cool movie) I hope these emails work. See you, pal. 

From, Leroy  
P.S. again, I really like your drawings. If the emails don’t work, I want you to remember to keep drawing.”

 

I smile warmly at the letter and decide I’m going to keep this. I put in it a folder with my backpack among other papers I’ll need.   
        People always ask what’s better, high school or college? I can’t really give you an answer there. The experiences are very different from each other. As a teenager dying to get out of the house, I couldn’t wait for high school to be over but I also knew I was going to miss it. Let’s be clear, I wasn’t going to miss the vexatious teachers that won’t let you use the restroom unless you say “may I?” or the overload amounts of work in all my classes or the stodgy required standardized tests. It seemed we had to take a new, fatuous test every year because it’s these tests our asinine government-not the teachers who actually work with the kids-makes that help the students. I won’t miss the stupid projects I had no interest in stressing about nor will I miss the dumbasses I see every day. What do I miss about high school are my friends and acquaintances I’ve made over the years. I miss the adventures we had being young and reckless. I miss being a kid and having the ability to make mistakes without heavy repercussions. Being a kid, if you mess up, you learn and life goes on. As an adult, if you mess up and make a mistake, it’s detrimental, especially if you don’t learn from your mistakes.   
        Granted college has its perks. I love my family and all but this new fangled thing called independence happened and I’m addicted. I like I can wake up on my own time and live in my own space without needing to keep organized to someone else’s standards. Roy was my roommate but we didn’t mind how we kept our belongings. In college, everything academically seemed more appealing and I actually got to learn a lot. There is a drastic improvement in my work. My senior year, I loved drawing and I’d like to say I’m good at it without sounding narcissistic. But the amount of art shows my work featured in reinforces the thought of my skills. However, in college, I learned back in highschool I was good for my age but I have significantly improved.   
        Looking through my sketchbooks, you may start to notice familiar characters. I’m not really sure when I started drawing them, they spontaneously came into my head and I continuously put them on paper. The girl came first.   
Kelsey Bond I remember started appearing in my artwork sometime in eighth grade. One of the first sketches of her was prior to my knowledge of proportions so Kelsey did not look realistic. Her neck was as wide as her chin and her shoulders were the same width as her neck and her waist was tragically  slimmer than the human skeleton would allow. Her eyes were unusually high on her head and they weren’t level with one another, also, her head was not very round. Most disturbing, I didn’t draw her with a nose…  
        Then in art class, I crossed the bridge between amateur and on-the-path-to-not-sucking by learning human proportions. A person’s height should be equivalent to 7-8 of their heads, their shoulders should be wide enough to hold their head on each, and their eyes are in the center of their face. The sketches of Kelsey started coming together after I applied my new knowledge.   
        Freshman year, my sketches of Kelsey were incessant. Each time I drew her, it became more elaborate on consistent details to the point I felt I was drawing a real person. Kelsey has wavy hair past her shoulders and  it’s an auburn color. Her eyes are of course cerulean blue and I draw them as if she wears mascara or whatever the black line stuff girls wear on their eyes is called. Considering the drawings of her were consistent with the ones before I knew about human proportions, Kelsey continued to be rather slim, though it was now humanly possible for her to be this slim and also healthy.   
During my sophomore year, Tyler Becker made his first appearance. I was at lunch with my sketchpad and I was intending on drawing Kelsey again but I decided to change it up a bit, thus creating Tyler. I had just finished learning about drawing muscles and how to shadow flesh, which is why Tyler is a bit of a jock. He has brown eyes, honey color, and blond hair, somewhat of an ashy color, mainly because I shaded it too darkly the first time and just stuck with it.  
        Slowly I turned Kelsey and Tyler into the stereotypical popular kids. She’s a cheerleader and he’s the football quarterback. When practicing to draw vehicles, I drew him in a sports car. I designed Tyler’s Letterman jacket and Kelsey always wore these blue wedges to match her eyes. Whenever I wanted to try out a new color pencil, I’d use it on her nails because she seems like the type who would never have the same nail color every day. It must go with her outfit after all.   
Perhaps I was crazy for creating such elaborate people who don’t even exist but these two did me some good. The more I drew these two, the more in depth their personality would be and I was just keeping it all in the back of my head with the hundreds of sketches I had as a little memo of all their details.   
        The most difficult part about Kelsey and Tyler was I couldn’t figure out how to establish their relationship between one another. Because I gave them last names, they weren’t related unless they were cousins but they don’t look similar. Kelsey has a slim face and Tyler is much more stocky. They’re both popular so they could be best friends but they also could totally be dating since it fits their stereotype however it contradicts their personality. They are both heartbreakers. Kelsey flirts with every male in her line of sight and all the guys think they stand a chance with her. And Tyler adores it when girls all flirt with him but he enjoys the constant newness so he’d never settle down.   
        When I was drawing them in high school, they too were in high school. I feel like I grew up with Kelsey and Tyler or maybe it’s because I see their progress as I got better but whatever. As I was in college, Kelsey and Tyler were in college too and of course, they were in a sorority and a fraternity. One day sitting in my dorm, I finally figured out their relationship. In the same moment, I realized I could use them for a graphic novel.   
        Coming up with the title was difficult and I decided not to rattle my brain out by trying to figure one out so I skipped that part. The story takes place in some fictitious college with a very cultured greek life. Kelsey was in the Prota Kyra sorority and Tyler in the Enas Delta fraternity, both known for consisting of heartbreakers and players, perfect for these two. At a college party, there’ll be an argument between the two houses about Kelsey and Tyler, the leaders of the houses. Long story short, both of their pride is hurt so Kelsey challenges Tyler to a bet. “You think you’re a better heartbreaker than me? We’re both players so why don’t we play a game? You’ll be my boyfriend and I’ll be your girlfriend. We’ll flirt and text all day and night and give each other cute nicknames. We’ll go on long walks holding hands and give long hugs and kisses. We’ll do everything we would to any ‘mark’ but here’s the catch. The first person to fall in love? Loses.” Of course, Tyler accepts and intends to sweep her off her feet but Kelsey was prepared. Tyler falls in love with her over time but his ego is too important to admit it so he keeps playing the game until he’s no longer playing but genuinely meaning everything he says and does.   
        I started working on my project when the title came to me: First One Loses. Whether it’s good or not, I don’t know. I think it’s good, otherwise, I wouldn’t use it but my standards of good might not meet the general public’s standard of good. However, I wasn’t going to dwell on little tidbits such as when I could just work on my story.  
Roy comes into the dorm and I’m curled up on my bed with my laptop writing everything down before I forget. I learned the hard way you’re lying to yourself when you say “I’ll remember it later” because we all know you won’t.   
“Hey, Nikki, what’s up?” he says, kicking the door shut and rummaging through the fridge.   
“Working on Kelsey and Tyler,” I answer.  
    “I thought we had soda, where’d it go?”  
    “Dude, we had it for breakfast.”  
    Roy looks up. “What? Oh, yeah…” He grabs a water out instead and comes over. “Wait, you're drawing your people but typing?” he points out. I explain to him my idea and he gets just excited as I am. “Hey, that’s awesome, man. You know how it ends, like, do they end up together or does Kelsey win the bet?”  
    I lean back and sigh. “Yeah, it’s still a work in progress. I think I’ll just work on what I have so far and over time as I continue, the ending will just naturally fall into place. And if it doesn’t, well, I’ll just kinda like yeah. You know?”  
    Roy stares at me confuzzled. “No, I don’t know,” he says. “See, when you do that thing where you start talking without actually talking, I have no idea what you mean.”  
    “Eh, I figured,” I say scrolling through my computer. “Well, I like to think I’ll have them end up together but I also feel like it’s going to be cliche that way. But you know how I am, it’s impossible for me to contently end on a tragic note. I like happy endings, although it seems like happy endings are now overrated.”  
    “Well, you can make it where it’s no longer cliche.”  
    “Roy, it’s cliche because everyone else does it. I can’t repeat an overused technique and call it not cliche.”  
    “What makes it cliche, though?” he asks.  
    “The guy gets the girl and everyone lived happily ever after. I’m making this in that AU concept where it’s a world without soulmate tattoos because if they were to end up together, Tyler’s tattoo would have to be you think you’re a better heartbreaker than me and that would mess the confusion up since they know to love each other and thus eliminating the whole plot.” I lie back down and feel Roy starring at me. “The guy gets the girl and everyone is happy, I just feel like no one would really care if it ended the way they thought. What’s the point in reading a book exactly like real life? We’re so used to living happily ever after that my story won’t introduce anything new to the world.”  
    “It’s not really about the ending then,” Roy says softly, understanding I’m in the midst of another one of my episodic mini-crises. “It’s the same thing for us, we all know we’re going to live happily ever after because we have these tattoos but it’s not always the end result that matters. Sometimes we forget the journey is just as important. We look at where we are and forget to also look how we got here. It took us 20 years to be where we are right now. I know when you first drew Kelsey it was close to a stick figure with an anime head.”  
    “Oh, shut up. I’m just as confused why I drew people with cubed eyes when I was a kid.”  
    Roy laughs lightly and rolls back against a deflated pillow. “See, it’s a process. You write your story and you can make it how you like. The guy gets the girl and they live happily ever after but earn the happily ending. Make the audience so desperately want them together as bad as you do. And throw them off by including tragedy. Just because it ends happy doesn’t mean it was happy the whole way there. And you can prove that you’re capable of breaking the cliche by other examples.”  
    “Like what examples?” I ask intrigued. I always liked it when Roy would start talking because he’s full of good ideas, after all, he is a songwriter. Ideas is his middle name.   
    “I don’t know, just prove that you are capable of heartbreak as much as Kelsey and Tyler are so the reader genuinely doesn’t know if it will end how they want. Have Tyler get into a car accident and his best friend driving dies or maybe Kelsey’s friend gets attacked and what not. Just show you can end this a thousand different way and the audience has to keep reading to figure out which way you’ll end it and if it’s the one ending they really want.” Roy glances at me uneasily. “What?”  
    “What what?”   
    “You’re smiling at me,” he says.  
    “Okay, I’m sorry for being happy?”  
    “What? No, that’s not what I meant,” he says playfully kicking me. “Like, I don’t know. I feel like I talk too much sometimes.”  
    “No, I like it,” I reassure him. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you, you try out your new guitar?”  
    Roy’s whole face lights up at the mention of his guitar. “Dude!” he exclaims falling backward and rolling off the bed. “It’s so epic. Oh my god, it can get really loud. I thought my acoustic was pretty loud but the electric, it’s unreal.”  
Our second semester of freshman year at college, Roy met his bandmates. Holly and Reed Demopoulos. Reed is the singer and his sister plays the drums. They met Roy and agreed he could write the music and be the guitarist/vocalist. So far, Roy is working on constructing an album but until he believes it’s complete, they only play covers from alternative rock bands.   
Their name is Epiphanot, which after Googling I found to be mildly upsetting that epiphanot is the word they’re using to define their passion. I only heard one of their songs so far and it’s called Rising Sunset. Their music is really spectacular but it’s somewhat incomplete considering they are in a need for a bass guitarist. Roy, Holly, and Reed are still looking though they haven’t had much luck. Last year they did find a bassist but long story short, the dude got arrested, which ended their ties with him rather shortly.   
    It takes me two more years to finish college as well as my first graphic novel. I spent months writing all the dialogue and going through it to make sure it’s how I wanted then I started working on digital art software. I’ve always loved sketching on paper but for editing purposes, it’s much more convenient digitally. I took computer art my sophomore and junior year of high school, which made the transition a lot easier. I knew the basic properties and functions of the program but the real goal was to be able to draw Kelsey and Tyler as good or better than the sketches I have on paper.   
    I took a class to work with computer art, which helped significantly. I found drawing them on the computer is much easier than the paper, that is after I learned how to. I created a template of Kelsey, Tyler, and other important characters’ faces so I didn’t have to draw from scratch every time. I’d simply duplicate the specific face and make the small adjustments as needed. I was also able to complete a lot more work in one sitting than before. I finished the first graphic novel rather quickly for also needing to learn how to use the program but considering I knew these characters for years before hand, it was easier than anticipated.   
    I found a literary agency who took interest in my work and they said they were wanting to publish it. I was rather accomplished I started my career before I technically finished school. I was really excited I could potentially be holding a solid copy of my work right after I graduated college. I called my mom to tell her about it and she was very impressed with me.   
    “So I guess all those years of doodling on your homework paid off, huh?” she teases.   
    “Seems so. Who needs to know the quadratic formula anyway?” I joke as I turn over on my bed looking out the window. It’s still raining so I can’t really walk around like I planned. “Hey, Mom? After graduation, when I come home, could you make vatrushka?”   
    She laughs on the other end of the phone. “Perhaps.”  
    “What? Perhaps? I haven’t had any in years!”  
    “Nikki, I made some when you came back over the holidays.”  
    “Yeah, well, that was before the new year so it wasn’t this year,” I say. “Please, Mom?”  
    “You sound how you did when you were a baby,” she remarks. I don’t say anything. “I feel you judging me through the phone.”  
    “Well, I am.”  
    “What kind do you want?”  
    “Raspberry,” I answer matter of factly.   
    “Why am I not surprised?”  
    “Because that’s what I always ask for.” I sit back up and stretch out a bit, switching the phone to my other ear. “How’s Roman doing?” I ask.  
    “He’s not overly fond of the amount of work he has to do.”  
    “Eh, that doesn’t surprise me.” My brother attends a school closer to home so he doesn’t live on his college’s campus, he stays home. “What’s he majoring or is he still undecided?”  
    “He’s looking into an accounting major, isn’t that what Roy’s doing?”  
    “Yeah, that’s his backup plan if music doesn’t work out.”  
    “Well, I have faith he’ll do well just like you.” There’s a rustling on the other end. “Your father's home now, I’ll talk to you later, Nikolaevan. Love you.”  
    “I love you too, Mom. Bye.” I end the call and I don’t think twice about it. Why would I?


	3. The Last Raspberry Vatrushka

        After graduation, a few others and I went to the bar a few blocks down. I had a few kamikazes but I was definitely not wasted I can say. This one dude in my computer class, he and his pals were wasted. Even intoxicated me was able to tell. But it didn’t really matter, we all graduated so we’re entitled to be a little reckless. Besides, is it unheard of for a college kids to be drinking and laughing? If it is, you must live under a rock.   
        I don’t remember leaving the bar but I remember laughing with Roy about going home. Next thing I know, my head it pounding and I’m face planted in my mattress wearing the clothes from last night. I’ve had hangovers before and as they go, this was mild. I sit up with the sun blinding me. Man, I need to get black out curtains or something. I glance down and see a random girl sleeping next to me and I freeze for a minute. I don’t know who she is but by the looks of it, nothing happened. She has her clothes on comfortably as do I. Okay, maybe I did drink a little too much but so far, nothing utterly regrettable has happened that I’m at least aware of. I glance over at Roy’s bed and see him underneath his blanket but it dawns on me it isn’t Roy. Definitely one too many shots.   
        I get up and stumble to the kitchen in need for painkillers and water. Well, I don’t feel like vomiting and my throat doesn’t burn so I assume I didn’t last night. My neck is rather sore and I realize my phone is still in my back pocket. I take it out and click it on but it’s completely dead. I try turning it on but I only make it to the company logo before it shuts itself off again. My phone never charged last night. I’ll have to wait on finding Roy. I head over to my mattress and precariously balanced to avoid hitting the girl while I connect my phone to the charger. Give it a thirty minutes and I’ll be able to turn it on and use it.   
        I head out to the halls for a bit taking a stroll. I’ve graduated from college. For the longest time, my whole life was planned to do well in high school to go to college so you can get a job. But the “get a job” part is a bit vague. Currently, I’m unemployed with a hopefully promising future with the literary agency. Though a graphic novelist is a bumpy start; I’ll need a small time job to have a steady income at least.  
         I don’t feel comfortable going completely outside without my phone so after hanging out in the commons for a bit, I return to my room. The guy has left and Roy is back and the girl is now awake. “Hey, Nikki,” Roy grumbles, clearly suffering a worse hangover than I am.   
        “Hey, where did you end up last night?” I ask.   
        “Down the hall in the dorm across. I guess I missed our room.”  
        The girl zips up her jacket. “Yeah, I think I did that too, sorry.”  
        “It’s all good,” I tell her.   
        “Well, see you, Nikki. Bye, Roy.” She gets up and walks out of the dorm.   
        “Yo, man, do you remember who she is?” Roy asks me.   
        I stare at him blankly. “Well, considering I was intending on asking you the same, I guess neither of us know. Let’s just hope we won’t bump into her again for the sake of avoiding awkwardness.”  
        “Alright, good plan,” he says. I go over to my phone and see it’s at 12% I turn it on and my notifications blow up and I sigh. “You good, Nikki?” Roy asks, sensing my distressed.   
        “I have 14 missed calls all from my dad,” I mutter, trying to go through them. The first one is from yesterday at 6:38, the second, third, and fourth ones are within ten minutes after the first. Then he tried twice again at 8, then again every hour up until 1 am. The last three were all between 15 and 2 minutes ago.   
        “Well, you weren’t really on your phone and it must have died before we even go back to the dorms. Probably wants to talk to you since you graduated.”   
        “Yeah, but they’re only from my dad. Not my mom or anything from Roman, not even a text,” I explain trying to go through everything. Something isn’t adding up. My phone goes blank. “What the…” I try hitting the back button when I realize someone’s now calling me. Dad. I answer it. “Hey, sorry. Forgot to charge my phone la-”  
        “Nikolaevan?” my father answers on the other end. I prepare myself for the rap I’m about to get. Except he doesn’t reprimand me. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a long time?” His voice is shaking and rather grim.  
        “I just woke up, sorry I didn’t answer. I was busy.” Silence. “Dad?”   
        “It’s okay, son. You-you’re not in trouble,” he tells me in a soft voice. His voice isn’t soft like whisper-soft but very thick and heavy, kind of like talking to a crying child. He’s not angry or disappointed but more so perturbed. “Where are you?”  
        “My dorm? I’m, it’s just Roy and I. We’re not really doing anything right-”  
        “I need you to come home.”  
        “I was planning on coming back soon I hope you know. I’m probably going to come back later this-”  
        “No, not later. I need you home immediately. RIght now. Come home right now.”   
        My father has been interrupting me a lot and it’s somewhere between questioning and concerning. Not only is it out of character, but I feel in the pit of my stomach there is something he’s neglecting to tell me and it’s going to eat me alive with anticipation. “Is everything okay? What’s going on, Dad?”  
        His words are dry. “Nikolaevan, your mother was killed yesterday.”  
        All the tension drops in my face and a nervous chill shoots down my spine so violently it causes me to I shudder. “What?” My voice breaks and my head gives a shake. “No.”  
        “She was with Roman and out by our driveway. I wasn’t with them but they were hit by a passing car and…”   
        Everything shuts down and falls to a complete stop. The sun stops shining and the Earth stops turning and time falls still. All my thoughts and feelings wash out of me. I don’t feel myself losing balance or losing strength. It doesn’t occur to me my legs lost the will to hold me up and my fingers loosened their grasp, causing my phone to fall. But gravity hasn’t shut down because after leaning back far enough, I topple over and my back hits the edge of my bed frame, causing my nerves to scream. I feel the pain in my backside but I’m in too much shock to hurt.  
        “Nikki, what happened? Are you okay?” Roy comes over to me and he keeps repeating those phrases but in my head, it’s not registering what he’s asking or how I should respond. He bends down and picks up my phone. “Damn, the screen’s cracked,” he says and I just nod along. “Nikki?”   
        Nikki. That’s my name, Roy’s addressing me. I look up at him. “Huh?”  
        “What happened?” he asks. He’s very slow at speaking. He’s also holding my phone and my screen’s cracked.   
        “Shit, the screen cracked,” I mutter.   
        “Yeah, I just said that,” Roy comments. “What happened?”   
        “Uh, I, my back hurts.”  
        “Yeah, I would assume, you collapsed. What happened?” he asks again with more emphasis.  
        There’s a car alarm blaring outside down the street and traffic sounds, the occasional horn. In the neighboring dorms, there’s rustling and movement, especially in the hallway. I can even hear rambunctious banter on the floor above us. After all, we graduated and people are celebrating. Everyone is still going about their morning as they would, because for them, nothing has changed. For them, the sun hasn’t stopped shining, the Earth hasn’t stopped turning and time carries on uninterrupted. My mother passed away but the world didn’t shut down, I did.

        If I never received that news, I would have taken a few days to pack all my belongings in the dorm but knowing I need to get home now, I’ve come to realize how much crap I have. Roy knows I’m on the verge of going completely insane so he does his best to help me while also staying out of my way. I need to be out of here within the hour and I don’t have time to take everything with me so I start throwing away a bunch of random knickknacks I’ve collected and piled on my dresser. I then start going through my clothes realizing how I don’t wear everything. There’s a two pairs of jeans I’ve grown out of and haven’t touched in years, a shirt that’s stained and worn thin and a jacket that’s ripped I don’t use anymore. I stick them in a bag and plan on donating them. I throw out my converse because they’re kind of old.   
        “You still wear those shoes, Nikki,” Roy tells me as I drop them in the trash.  
        “They’re old,” I say going through more of my crap.  
        “But you don’t need to throw everything away. You’ve been keeping your stuff for a reason.”  
        “Well, I don’t have that reason anymore and I don’t remember what it was to begin with.” Closet’s good. Dresser is good. Desk… There’s a bunch of old course work and papers, things I don’t really need and anything considered important I have on my laptop. I recycle a handful of notebooks and a stack of papers. The top of my desk’s been cleared off in under a minute. I look in the draws and freeze from my hyperclean-mode. I have all my sketchbooks and story notes in here. Do I even needs these? Five of these sketchbooks are completely filled with old drawings, most of them aren’t even nice. I take out my oldest one and look through my drawings. I hate these, they’re terrible and I clearly had no sense of talent back then. I flip through it all. In fact, they’re all terrible. I don’t need any of these.   
        “Nikki, please don’t throw those away,” Roy says. I ignore him, tossing on of the ground to look through another. This is just as bad, perhaps worse. “Nikki, stop.”   
        “It doesn’t matter,” I mutter. I scoop them up and dump them all in the recycling pile. The binding on the bottom on snaps.   
        “Nikolaevan.” I look up at Roy and he walks over to me. Roy is much taller than I. “Pick them up, okay? I’m not letting you throw awake your sketchbooks.”  
        I look down at them and then back up at Roy. “Well, one of them’s broken now, it belongs in the trash.”   
        Roy doesn’t say anything, just looks at me sympathetically and picks them up. “If you’re not going to take care of them, I will for you.”  
        “Roy, come on, man. Knock it off. I don’t have time to pack old memories. I don’t need those,” I argue. Roy picks them up and takes the broken one to his desk. “Forget about it.” He starts taping the binding back together with the packing tape. “Roy!”  
        “Look, I know you’re upset right now. I am so sorry what happened.”  
        “You don’t need to apologize, it’s not your fault. You weren’t the one who killed her.”  
         He looks at me leaning forward in his chair. “I am sorry you have to go through this. I’m not apologizing, I’m expressing my sorrow for you. But even if the person who did do this, if they said I’m sorry and apologized, I doubt you would accept it then. I know I wouldn’t.”  
        I bite my bottom lip and look away. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I just, I want to go home and I want to find out if Roman’s going to be okay because he was in the hospital too. I don’t have time to pack stupid keepsakes. I already lost my mom. It’s too late for her but I need to get home and I need to see my brother before it’s too late for him too.”  
        “Roman’s going to be okay,” Roy tries to reassure me.  
        “How could you be so sure, huh?” I am dangerously close to crying, which my whole objective is to not. If I start, I know I won’t stop and I hate crying in front of people. Not a lot of people have seen me cry, not even Roy. I take a deep breath and try to slow down my breathing. “I need to leave right now, I need to go home. I don’t have time for stupid childish things and keeping crap for the sake of keeping it.” I strain myself and clench my jaw, refusing to let there be tears welling up in my eyes.   
        “What do you absolutely need?” he asks me.  
        “Clothes, important notes for my work.”  
        Roy goes over to my drawer and sees the folders I have and grabs them all, then carefully lines them up in my school bag. “You’ve taken care of everything, you don’t need to throw this away, okay?”  
        “Okay,” I answer him, grabbing it and throwing it over my shoulder. I reach over and unplug my charger from the outlet. My phone’s at 92%. Close enough.   
        “I’m serious, Nikki. I don’t want you tossing any of your work out.”  
        “I won’t, I promise.” I grab the last of my belongings and shove my charger in the front pouch then pocket my phone. Roy looks at me uncertain. “Roy, you know I’ve never broken a promise before.”  
        He hugs me goodbye real quick. “Take care of yourself, man. I’ll see you soon.”  
        “Thank you,” I whisper hugging him back real quick then I head out the door. 

        The train ride home is longer than it was when I took it four years ago. Maybe it’s because I took a long nap a majority of the ride there, whatever. I remember riding the train I was with Roy and we were excited for starting college and living in our dorms together. I remember sketching Kelsey and Tyler on their way to college and planning out how I’m going to set up my belongings. After an hour or two, I eventually leaned back with my arms crossed, feet kicked out, and head down. Wasn’t long before I conked out. Now I try to fall asleep to kill the time but my head won’t shut up. My brain is rambling to much and it’s too busy and frantic in my head to drift off. It’s easier to deal with reality when you stay asleep, it’s a small escape from living but nothing permanent. You can always wake up from sleep, you can’t from real life.  
Maybe she’s not gone. Maybe she’ll come back and when I get home, she’ll be there. I would forgive my father for such a sick escapade in order to get me to rush home immediately if it meant my mom was still alive. She can’t really be gone though, she’s my mom and I need my mom.   
        My mother is one of the few people in my life I always got along with very well. The stereotypical teen hates their parents and resents them. Sure, my father and I have our differences in the past but that’s not the point now. The point is they’re my parents and I love them. Growing up, I made a great effort, no matter how irrational they seemed or how “misunderstood” I felt, I not once ever uttered the words “I hate you” to my parents. I’ve heard Roman mutter and shout it multiple times in the past but I never had. Not to their face, not while ranting to my friends, not even under my breath because I learned there is a reason for everything they do. I understand not all of us have perfect families. There’s violence and neglect but that’s not in my home. My family is a very loving one, no violence. We were never violent people, we did good. So why was my mother killed?

        As a child, I wasn’t always liked. In elementary school, no one has developed a personality yet though somehow people still choose to think lesser of me because I was the weird kid. I didn’t play with the monster trucks or race cars in kindergarten and I didn’t read the popular 50 some book series everyone was reading in third grade and I didn’t learn trumpet or percussion or whatever the cool guy instrument was to learn in fifth grade. I liked to finger pain in kindergarten and I liked to read superhero comic books in third grade and because I was really good at piano so in fifth grade, I never learned a new instrument, I just kept playing piano. I tried to fit in. I laughed when the funny kids told jokes and I listened when the cool kids told stories but at the end of the day, I knew not a lot of people liked me. At recess, I didn’t play kickball or run on the jungle gym. I sat at the picnic tables with my sketch book and I would color.   
        I loved school but I hated it too. I love learning new things and I love discovering new concepts and I love understanding how the world functions. But I hate sitting by myself at lunch and at recess and on the bus and I hate feeling alone. I’d run off the school bus and I could feel the other kids who were cool walking together staring at me. I tried walking with them off the bus before but they’d be quiet and never talk until we passed my house, then they’d start talking and laughing when I finally left them. I hated elementary school and my mom knew that.   
        On particularly bad days, when I got home trying not to cry, my mother would come up to me, take off my backpack and hug me tightly. She’d ask me what’s wrong and as much as I knew how babyish it was of me, I liked it when she referred to me as sweetie. I remember my mom would take me to the grocery store and buy chocolate ice cream for the two of us and a carton of raspberries. I’d hold it in the car and she’d drive to the park. Not the park by our house where all the kids go, the park a few block further down a side road. All the kids would go to Beyer Park and I felt insecure. My dad didn’t get why I would be afraid of a group of kids my age but my mom knew I was afraid of being excluded and ridiculed because it’s the kids my age who do that. My mother would drive the extra mile to go to the forgotten play ground, Rosemont Park. It was older, which is why it never had visitors but I liked this one more. It had benches and a real swing set and monkey bars and a twisty slide. Beyer had these new features like the 15 person seesaw and exotic contraptions to climb. Rosemont was a classic park and it was just me and my mom there.   
        The two of us would sit on the benches and mix the raspberries in our ice cream cups and just eat it together. My mom and her friends believed when you’re sad, you should always have ice cream and never question it. I like her philosophy. She would never ask me what’s wrong because she knew I’d get more upset so instead she asked what I learned today. Then I could tell her all the new interesting things like about Abraham Lincoln or galaxies or how to use long division. I could tell her all my knew drawings and she made me promise to show her them right when we got home. She would always listen to me, I mean really listen. Not just nod along while swirling her ice cream on her spoon and waiting for me to shut up like the kids at school. She would look me in my eyes and be paying attention with a soft smile growing on her face. She would always listen to me and she really cared what I said. Not that I could see it, but I knew she wasn’t thinking about anything else or distracted. Her only focus was me and I really appreciate it. I wasn’t invisible to her; I actually mattered and felt I was going to be okay.  
        Later we’d play at the park. Some days, we’d play tag and I would run as fast as I could and she’d never catch me. I know she was faking it before but it still made me feel good to believe I was a super fast runner. She would always agree with me how I had super speed like the heros in my comic books. Or some days I would sit on the swings and she would push me as hard as she could. I would go super high to the point where it scared my mom but I always promised her I was holding on really tight and I was safe. I felt like I was flying and the wind would rush through my bangs and my face. I felt like nothing could stop me and I was a superhero flying through the air and everything was going to be okay.   
        In the winter, if I was upset, we wouldn’t get ice cream. She’d help me put on my snow pants and bundle me up and tie my snow boots and tuck my mittens into my sleeve because I really hate frostbite. She’d buy us hot chocolate and get raspberry flavored marshmallows. We’d still go to Rosemont Park and sit on the benches drinking our hot chocolate. I’d tell her everything I learned and she’d listen. Then when we finished, she run with me in the freshly fallen snow and help my build a snowman. Sometimes, she misplaced her gloves but she would still help me roll the snow with her bare hands. I would offer her my mittens but she’d just smile and reassure me she was okay. We’d build these huge snowmen where they were bigger than me. I’m surprised my mother didn’t get a hernia trying to stack the rolled snow on top of one another. We’d build snow forts and make little tunnels for me to crawl in. Once, I got her to come inside my igloo except she only fit her upper half in. She must have been cold because her jeans were covered in snow but she insisted I shouldn’t need to worry because she was okay.  
        My favorite days were when there was no superheros or snow forts. It was on the rare occasion when I would convince my mother not to sit on the benches up try to climb up the monkey bars and sit on top with me. If we did, she would boost me up and then pass up our ice cream to me. I’d hold onto it while she shimmied up the monkey bars. The two of us would sit up in the air swinging our legs and eating ice cream talking. After I told her everything I learned, it was my turn to listen. My mother would tell me the most fascinating stories about when she was a kid. She’s tell me the time how she used to read comic books back when they were being issued and brand new. She would tell me about all her Halloween costumes and the fun things she did as a child in school like sliding down the banisters in the stairway. However, I rather enjoyed when she told me stories of her and Dad. The things they did before Roman and I were born. She didn’t tell me as much about herself as she did when it was the two of us spending the whole time at the park not playing but talking. I liked it up there with my mom because it was those days when we climbed back down, I felt better than okay.  
        There were nights when I couldn’t fall asleep, she’d make sure I had my bear and tucked me in then sang me a lullaby. Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mommy’s going to buy you a mockingbird. She’s rub my back while softly singing to me and after she finished singing to me, she’d whisper I love you before kissing my forehead. I was always able to fall asleep after that. How did I learn to fall asleep without her singing to me? When did she stop singing me her lullaby and when she she stop giving me back rubs? I don’t remember the last time I went to Rosemont Park with her, in fact, I bet the last night we went, it never occurred to me it would be the last time. When was the last time she hugged me and lifted me off my feet or carried me out of the car because I was pretending to be asleep? I don’t remember the last time we went out for ice cream or bought raspberry flavored marshmallows at the one store that sold them. When was the last time she asked me what I learned in school and I actually told her everything instead of blandly dropping the conversation by muttering a monotonous “nothing”? I don’t remember when I started growing up, it just happened without me ever realizing. One day, I started combing my hair myself and I didn’t have to ask to ask anymore to have a snack and I stopped needing my parents to check my teeth after I brushed them. There was no specific time anything changed, it just happened gradually. It was so subtle it slipped under my radar and it never dawned upon me. I knew I was all grown up, I graduated high school and college after all. I can live on my own and I’ve started my career, I’m no where close to being a kid, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need my mom anymore.

        These tattoos are what clues us into finding our true love. They tell us the exact moment our happiness is about to begin but the scary catch is they also signify the exact moment it all ends. Written across my mother’s wrist since the day she was born were the words “do you mind if I stare and admire you for a minute”. She knew when she would meet her soulmate. Across my father’s wrist was “don’t let go of my hand”. My mother and father, Irina and Darius have completed the cycle where both of their tattoos have been said.   
        Naturally, after we meet our soulmate and we know what the last words we’ll ever exchange is, we are afraid to hear them. Those whose tattoos are “I’ll be back” or “Get the mail” are constantly afraid to here these common phrases, worrying if it’s the last time they’ll speak to each other. With my father’s being what his is, he would make sure to always hold her hand and not let go. I thought it was sweet how he didn’t want to lose her so he kept her fingers interlocked with his. I can’t even imagine all the thousands of scenarios playing in his head of the different ways in context why she would ask him not to let go. I doubt it occurred to him she and his youngest son would be out on our driveway and a drunk maniac would be behind the wheel of their car. I doubt he knew that car would jump the curb and run over his wife and child. I doubt he knew that morning would be the day he’d go outside and see his family's blood smeared on the driveway, the driveway he has walked on every day for decades of his life.   
        My mother and Roman were out on our driveway, I’m not sure what they were doing when a car jumped the curb and ran into them. People were screaming and calling 911. My dad ran outside and saw them. Roman was unconscious and his wife was lying on the pavement convulsing. Her hands frantically shaking and reaching for him. My father was screaming desperately for help to come faster while my mother struggled to turn her head so she can look at Roman.   
Her head was bleeding and there was blood pooling inside her mouth. She took hold of Roman’s hand and was shaking while my father held them both in his arms crying. Roman wasn’t waking up, just bleeding. My mother was staring up at my dad tears streaming down her face. On the train, my dad told me everything that happened while crying as he relived the event. He also told me what she said to him.   
        “Make sure Roman’s okay. Tell Nikki I’m proud of him.”  
        My dad stroked her hair and held her tightly. “I will, love,” he told her then took hold of her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.  
        “Don’t let go of my hand,” she muttered before closing her eyes.   
        “I won’t, I’ve got you,” he said but I doubt she heard him. My mother died on our driveway bleeding out and my brother was next to her slowly slipping away himself. Where was I during all of this? At a bar drinking, getting wasted with a dead phone and no way to know.   
        I realize I’m starting to get too deep in my poisonous thoughts and I’ve had enough pondering for the day. I take out my earbuds and connect them to my phone. I’m in no mood to satisfyingly select a song to listen to so I click shuffle. Fate can decide for me. Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” comes on. I lean my head back and shut my eyes. 

        The train reaches the station so I can’t sit froze anymore. I grab my bags and make it off the train. A gush of wind blows my bangs into my eyes and I scowl. People walk past me in all directions looking straight ahead busy with their own agenda. My agenda: take a taxi to the hospital. Granted, I don’t want to take a taxi, I’d rather walk. Besides, it isn’t that far of a journey and I like going for walks. I didn’t get to this morning since I wasn’t going to leave the dorms with a dead phone.   
        With a brisk step, I start heading my way to the hospital. I don’t know why but I always like going for walks. Walking is a way to slowly take all your surroundings in. In a car, everything blurs by way too quickly and you miss the details life provides. Maybe it’s because I’m an artist but I love seeing details. To go exploring by car is glancing at a photograph of a painting. To go exploring by foot is seeing the painting through your own eyes and taking in all the detail, noticing all the effort put in and truly knowing it’s beauty. It’s one thing to see beauty but it’s a whole different perspective to comprehend the beauty. Walking to the hospital helps ease my sickening tension. If I was in a cab, it would be quiet enough for my thoughts to creep up inside my head and wrap about my brain. I don’t think the cab driver would appreciate my having a break down in the back seat. Walking around, I can see the trees and their leaves. It’s interesting how trees have full unity yet looking closely they aren’t very symmetrical. Nothing in nature is ever entirely symmetrical, there’s always imperfections and flaws however everything in nature has full unity, a balance, harmony.  
        The people who pass by are very complicated. Every single person I walk past has their own life, their own tattoo, their own agenda for the day. Everyone has somewhere to be, people to see, things to do. Some people are going to work, some people found their soulmates, some have yet to encounter them and sadly others have already completed the cycle and lost them. It’s frowned upon to love another who is not destined to be yours however there is an exception, an exception heavily covered in pity. If two people completed the cycle and have said both tattoos, losing their soulmate, it’s acceptable for them to love each other for company purposes, especially if the cycle was completed at an early age. I find those who lost their true love before the age for 30, hell some cases before the age for 20, rather tragic. And it’s a weird concept for me but I don’t want to judge people who fall in love a second time but how off putting would it be to love and kiss and marry a second time? I’m not actively religious but I pray I never have to experience this. I want my soulmate to have been with me for many decades and we’d be in our old age when my tattoo is said and in this case, I would hope I’d be the one to die first. Perhaps it’s selfish but I don’t want to have to be live alone and without them. Then again, I “could be wrong” while my tattoo is the first part since we “never know.” Sure, I’ll be on the lookout for a stranger trying to be a hopeless romantic but otherwise, I have the last part.

        My thoughts come back to reality as I step into the hospital. My mother is dead and my brother is injured, perhaps will die too. My dad sent me the room number: 425. I push the elevator button and step inside. As I start ascending up, my stomach triggers the anxiety feeling elevators provide though when I step off, it doesn’t go away. The nervousness was from the elevator but now it’s from having to face reality.   
        My feet become lead approaching Roman’s room. If he’s in there and if he’s hurt, that means my mom's really gone. I stop before the threshold of the room staring inside. My father sits hunched over with his hands clasped, his fingers interlocked with his other hand. He shifts back and notices me standing in the doorway and adjusts his posture. He looks at me with doleful eyes and remorse struck across his face. In that moment, my heart sinks into the realization she’s really gone. I’ve never seen my father cry before. I’ve seen him angry to the point where he had to leave the room, I’ve seen him tired where he looked like he was sleeping with his eyes plastered open, I’ve seen him laugh so loud it would startle my mom. But I’ve never seen him cry. My dad is the the strongest guy I’ve known my whole life, not strong physically because I know there are some jacked guys who work out every hour and others overdosing on steroids. My dad is average in physical strength but emotionally, he’s the strongest guy I know. If he’s crying, then she’s really never coming back.   
“Nikolaevan,” he says with a heavy voice and sounding dry.   
        I don’t want to talk about Mom. I don’t want to have to hear him say again she’s gone and not coming back. “How’s Roman?” I ask.   
        My dad glances at him and takes a breath before looking back at me. “I want to say he’s getting better but we really don’t know,” he answers. I nod slowly and my dad gets up. I don’t like crying in front of my father, I’m not supposed to. Mom dries my eyes and comforts me but sons are not supposed to cry in front of their dads. It’s a universal rule. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder and gives a reassuring squeeze. I can’t look at him because my eyes are glistening. “It’s going to be okay,” he says in a low voice.  
        “How could you possibly say that?” I whisper. My voice breaks and I trail off at the end. “Mom’s gone, how are things going to be okay?”  
        “If there’s one thing your mother taught me, it’s that all aspects of life are provisional. That’s why we must treasure good times because it won’t last forever. But we must also remember this fact applies to when times are solemn.” My dad embraces me and tussles the back of my hair. “It’ll be okay, son. I miss her too.” I suddenly don’t care about the universal rule; I start crying in front of my dad.

        I curl up in this petty hospital chair with a 2 inches of cushion that does jack shit to supply comfort. How high maintenance of me to demand better quality chairs in a hospital but I think it’s a given fact. Who sits in these chairs? It’s not people waiting nine minutes for their train to come or someone sitting down to eat or trying to get recline for a movie. No, it’s people in a hospital. It’s not a nine minute wait or a forty minute seating or a two hour rest. The people in here are sitting while battling a war with time and reality in defense of their own sanity. We sit in these chairs and we could potentially lose our loved ones. We sit in these chairs waiting to the point where the time gap between every ticking second feels infinite and it takes eons for the minute hand to move and the hour hand might as well be permanently stuck in place. We fight off the worry and the battle the waiting with anticipation. We have the reality haunting over us that sometimes life doesn’t always work out. At some time, our life will end and it could be the life of a brother, a sister, moms, dads, family, friends, lovers. Reality haunts us because not all happy endings come true and in seconds or in hours more, we could lose someone we love. Not only is time and reality hard enough to ponder in these circumstances, but all the while, we are fighting to maintain our sanity. We sit immobilized in these chairs with our fingers interlocked praying for everything we’re worth, hoping we will not lose our loved ones tonight. We clasp our hands together so tightly our knuckles are white and our fingers have lost circulation about an hour ago and our palms are slick with nervous sweat. In these chairs, people shed their hardest tears and shake with anxiety thinking they’ll be alone when they go home. Hours, sometimes days, people sit in these chairs in fetal position or hunched over rattling their brain for a bargain, a plea, a prayer that will save the ones lying in the bed. We sit in these chairs when we hear the bad news and all the hope we’ve built up crashes down inside. We feel hollow and empty, our hearts actually tearing and shattering and our brains crack. We’ve lost it all, waiting for a miracle that never came. Hundreds, if not thousands of people sit in these chairs fighting a war that’s in the hands of fate. We deserve to be a little more comfortable; we deserve to be comforted, even if it's by a chair. When a person who has just lost it all rises from these chairs, they have enough on their mind and in their broken heart already, they don’t need stiffness in their backs or cramps in their leg on top of that, it’s salt in their wounds. It’s salt provided by the hospital for having them sit in this crap chairs to wait for god knows how long. It’s turning their sorrows and lost not only an emotional pain but physical pain to endure as well. When they lie back in their beds in the middle of the night and can’t feel their own heart beating anymore and they’ve cried so much they’ve forgotten how to breath, they’ll be reminded of their loneliness with the pain in their back and shoulders and neck because of these stupid chairs that couldn’t provide the comfort they needed when they lost everything. When they have a cramp, it will only reinforce the fact they are now alone so even when their mind and heart has rested from crying for a moment, their aching joints will sending the back to mourning because why else would they be sore? Because they were sitting in those torturous chairs for so long as their loved ones died. Maybe I’m the only one who thinks this, whatever. But after sitting in these goddamn chairs for 5 and a half hours waiting for that miracle to happen to my baby brother, a miracle which may never happen, I start to resent these chairs for making my pain a physical one as well. 

        I can’t take this anymore. I get up and almost stumble over because my legs cramped up from these stupid chairs.         “God damnit, chairs,” I mutter underneath my breath sending death glares at these cursed seats.  
        “Talking to inanimate objects again?” I spin around and look at my brother. “Thought you outgrew that,” he weakly says.   
        “Roman,” I whisper so relieved to hear him talking. “How are you?”  
        He glares at me. “Do you really need to ask to know?” He closes his eyes and shifts his shoulder. “How long has it been?”  
        “I’ve been here almost six hours,” I tell him.   
        “When did you get back?”  
        “This afternoon.” I glance down and click my phone on, which is going to die before the evening’s over. “It’s 6:34.” Roman nods along and I sit next to him. He’s got stitching in his head and his face is so swollen I could barely recognize him. He has a black eye accompanied with scrapes all over the one side of his face. A couple of his ribs are broken as is is his right leg. He also fractured his right wrist. Kid’s not going to be able to do much for a while.   
        Roman glances up at me. “Dad told you about Mom?” he whispers and I nod. He sighs weakly and his heart rate increases on the monitor. “I don’t know what happened, man. It just… I don’t even remember what happened. I don’t remember the car but I remember Mom screaming and being in pain and the blood.” Through his swollen eyes, tears seep out and trickle down his beat up face.  
        I place my hand on his good arm. “It’s not your fault, Roman,” I tell him. “There was nothing you could have done.”  
        “But I was there, I should have done something.”  
        I look down and take a breath. “At least you were with here,” I say.   
        He senses my remorse. “Nikki, you were at school graduating. Don’t feel bad for not being there.”  
        “I already graduated when she died. I didn’t answer my phone because I was drunk at a bar.” I look at him and he’s a bit appalled. “Didn’t expect that from me, huh?”  
        “I-You didn’t strike me at the type to do that,” he says staring at me as if my appearance had changed as the words left my mouth. Well, to him they did. I’m now longer his innocent and goody two shoes brother.   
“I’m 22, wasn’t aware that I’ve been drunk before?” I ask him.  
“I mean, yeah, it’s crossed my mind that you had a drink but to actually get drunk? Did you smoke pot too or other drugs?”  
        “Eh, no. Not that stuff. I’ve smelled it and it was nauseating so I passed. Drugs mess up your head and I didn’t pay a lot of money to flunk out of school.” He nods and relaxes a bit taking in the new perspective of me drinking. “I’m still your brother, that’s not going to change.” He nods. I take a look at his casts seeing how damaged he is from the hit. “Good thing you graduated last week,” I tell him.   
        “What? Oh, yeah. That would kind of suck.”  
        My father steps into the room with dinner for the two of us. “Roman? You’re awake?” he says with relieved smile on his face. Seeing him smile again makes me smile. My brother’s going to be okay for now, but that doesn’t change the fact that my mom is gone.  
   
        This is not how I expected myself coming home. I foresaw myself arriving back home coming in with my mom after she picked me up from the train station. I didn’t expect it to step into my old house late at night to find I’m the only one here. Dad’s still with Roman at the hospital and Mom’s gone. The only thing keeping me from losing it and screaming is the fact that the last time I spoke to my mom, I got to tell her I love her. I’m glad I called her when I did but that was over a month ago. I could have called her some time in between. I could have called her last week or last night. No, I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking about my family, why not? I could have talked to her one more time. Maybe if I called her last night, she would have been inside and she’d still be here. Why didn’t I talk to her as much as I should have? I had plenty of time, I just didn’t use it all.   
        I set my belongings down so I can take off my shoes then I trudge through the darkness of the unlit halls up to my old room and find it untouched. My bed is there with my black and blue comforter and my dresser with random papers I know I won’t need really considering how old they are. My best artwork is all framed on my walls and I have a case of all the piano and art awards I’ve won. Some music trophies and a lot of silk ribbons. As a little kid, I strived to do well not because I wanted to win not for the sake of being the best but because I loved the color blue so in order to get blue ribbons, I had to be the best. If they decided blue ribbons were going to be 4th place, I wouldn’t have been as ambitious to win. A majority of my art has some amounts of blue within the composition. I forgot how mildly obsessed I was with this color.   
        I set my luggage down. There’s no way I’m going to be unpacking now. I’m not in the mood. I’m starving and I’m sore from the stupid chairs. And I don’t want to do anything else while I have the house to myself. Now’s a good time to have a hard cry, one where I am alone.  
        The problem I have when I'm alone is my mind won't shut up and I think and then remember. When I remember, I feel pain and I cry and if I start crying, I won't stop. The worse types of crying are the ones that must be silent. The ones where there are others around so you can't make a sound or they'll know. The type of crying where your throat is so dry and swollen you start choking and your eyes are puffy, blurry from all the tears if physically hurts to force them open. The type of crying where you want nothing more than to scream out but must refrain it, locking it all deep inside. The type where you have to keep one hand over your mouth because you can't figure out how to be quiet so you must physically muffle your sobbing breaths. The type of crying where you've forgotten how to breathe and you can't tell yourself it's going to get better because you don’t see how it will.   
        The times when you need to scream out and thrash around angry and sad and everything in between but you can’t are the worst. There’s so much wrath and hate, anguish and desolation exploding out you need to scream and cry and exert yourself to release it. The types of crying where you must suppress it all deep inside are the worst because all those feelings need to get out but instead the concoction of depression boils inside your chest.  
        My thoughts are poisoning my head again, I need a distraction. I reach in my back pocket but realize my phone isn’t there. Well, this is just peachy-wait, I left it on the table when I came in. I turn around and head down to the kitchen and turn on the lights this time. I go over pick my phone and earbuds off the edge of the table. What I didn’t see the first time was I left it next to. I didn’t turn on the lights therefore, I didn’t see the little decorative plate my mom only uses for her fancy desserts. Next to my phone is her fancy china with a single raspberry vatrushka in the center and a blue sticky note on the rim of the plate in my mom’s handwriting. Save for Nikki in case I don’t have time to make more. I stare at the last raspberry vatrushka my mother will ever make. She was going to make more if she had time. She would have had time to make more because I was coming home a bit later. She would have had plenty of time if she wasn’t taken too soon. For the second time today, I drop my phone to the ground. The screens already destroyed so I don’t bother to check the integrity of the glass. I don’t care about it. I have a house to myself for the time being, I can cry as loud as I need to.


	4. Mildly Alive in Eastern Paris

        I had to get a replacement screen for my phone. Under normal circumstances, I doubt I would have cared the screen was shattered. Sure, it was pretty bad and I would have been pissed but I’ve had this for a year so it wouldn’t have been my main concerned. However, the reason it was damaged so badly was I dropped it twice, once when I found out my mother died and a second time when I realized how truly gone she is. It got to the point, I couldn’t use my phone because it just reminded me of something I didn’t want to dwell on anymore. What’s the point of having a phone if I never use it? I’ll spend the hundred dollars to get it fixed if it makes accepting change easier.   
        After the screen was replaced, I started talking to Roy when I was mentally able to. I guess Holly said she might have found someone they can recruit and they live in our home city. He and the others will be here soon so I’ll go back to seeing Roy every day or close to it. As much as I want him back so we can be roommates again, I’m probably going to just settle back down with my dad to help Roman. I’ve used my first advancement to help pay for Roman’s injuries so Dad didn’t have a burden of hospital bill as well as a funeral. Besides, what is a 22 year old living in his parent’s house going to do with an extra $5,000? It would be different if I had my own place but I don’t. And if I get royalties, I can save those for my personal expenses. My literary agent Martha Hayes said I’ll probably be getting a few copies of my book in the mail soon. Until then, I have no objectives to fulfill.

        I don’t know what it is but I’m just completely numb inside. There’s no one I really want to talk to. Roy texts me and I don’t open the conversation all the time. Roman’s home now but I don’t go over to talk to him and if my dad ever comes into my room, I pretend I’m sleeping. I don’t know what it is but I don’t feel anything anymore. I can barely find the strength to get out of bed. I remember back in high school when Aerosmith would play and I couldn’t get out of bed. This is different though, I’m not exhausted to the point it hurts. I’m just numb and can’t find a reason to leave bed even though I don’t have one to stay. I’m not ever tired anymore. I just lie swaddled in my blanket and buried with my head in my pillows motionless for hours. Since my dad isn’t always home and Roman is asleep since his medication makes him drowsy, I’ve stopped eating. Unless they ask me to come and sit with them for dinner, I’m not eating. If I don’t get out of bed, I don’t really become hungry anyways. I just want to lie down and waste away. 

        They were wrong to say time heals. Time doesn’t make anything easier. It’s been a month and I still miss her as much as I did when I found out she was gone. I miss hearing her voice. She never yelled at anyone, was always calm. She had a Russian accent, which I seemed to pick up in the slightest. I missed her patience with me and with others. She didn’t ever see me as a troubled kid but a kid with troubles. She never defined me by my issues, she saw I was more than them and she was able to bring out the more. I miss her ability to put a delightful aroma throughout the whole house and I miss eating raspberries with her. I had so many more stories of her life I’ll now never be able to hear. It doesn’t matter if I’m an adult, I still need my mom.  
        My phone buzzes and snaps my thoughts out. I turn it on and it’s Roy. 3 New Messages! I turn my phone back off and readjust my blanket over my shoulder. It buzzes again but I ignore it entirely. Not right now, Roy. I’ll talk to you later… It buzzes now continuously. I reach for it and see him calling me. “Bastard, I said not now,” I mutter under my breath before answering it. “Hello?”  
        “Nikki?”  
        “Hi.”  
        “You good? I texted you.”  
        “I was sleeping,” I grumble. Well, I’m lying in bed and sleeping has the same properties, technically not a lie. Besides, I’d be sleeping right now if I could.   
        “Oh, sorry, man. I just need to talk to you.” He’s very jittery and his energy is bursting.   
        “Everything good?”  
        “You’re not going to believe it! So Holly went to go meet with this girl who knows bass, right? Her name’s Sylvia and she’s really chill. Well, Holly said that she should meet Reed and I so we went downtown and you’re not going to believe it!”  
        “So Sylvia’s apart of your band?” I ask trying to sound as enthusiastic as I felt in my head. For some reason, I manage to sound monotone even though I was really happy they found their member.  
        “Well, yes, but that’s not what’s crazy. So Sylvia was playing Van Halen on her bass when Reed and I came in and this was epic. I knew I wanted her apart of our group so when she finished, I said ‘You got mad skills and good taste’ you know, because she’s really good and Van Halen, do I need to explain? Well, she looked at me in shock and rolled up her sleeve. I’m her soulmate.”  
        I sit up in my bed. “What? For real?” I smile starts spreading on my face and I feel my heart rate increasing. So I do have the capability to show emotions, even for myself.   
    “Yeah, I know! Oh my god, Sylvia is freaking amazing. We’ve been talking all morning and I want you to meet her because you’re my best friend.”  
    “Totally, when do you think?”  
    “Sylvia said there’s this really great bar called Eastern Paris. The owner is really nice and it’s pretty classy but not as expensive as you’d think. We were going to head over there later tonight so you think you can make it?”  
    I had important plans to continue wasting away in my room and sulking but I’ve done that the last three days. I don’t think getting back in the habit of existing and being in society will be detrimental. Besides, I haven’t seen Roy in awhile, he’s my best friend and he’s worried about me. Although tonight he won’t be worrying, we’ll be celebrating. This will be healthy. I don’t really enjoy feeling this way so perhaps it will take my mind off everything. “Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

    I head out of my room and stumble around feeling faint. I should probably eat something, considering it’s been so long I don’t exactly remember when or what I had last time I ate. It was definitely more than two days ago. I grab hold of the railing because let’s face it, it would be a huge inconvenience to fall down the stairs if I blacked out. That’d require a trip to the hospital and just a bunch of other nonsense like insurance so let’s save the trouble and just avoid fainting.   
    Rummaging through the kitchen, I find a box of pizza sitting on the counter. I wasn’t aware they ordered pizza. I hop on my particular place on the counter and munch on a few slices. I don’t really taste anything, I only note it’s rather chewy. At this point, food is food.   
    How long has it been since I pulled a blanket up because I was cold or kicked it off because I was not, not because I was bored and fidgeting? When was the last time I ate something and I enjoyed every bit? Was there I time I ever slept without feeling alone or was I always up at 3 a.m. crying because I can’t for the life of me pass out and I wonder if stuffing my head in a pillowcase to build up carbon dioxide would be an easier way to pass out than on me own. How did I always respond to every text I got the moment I knew they were trying to talk to me when now, all I can do is listen and hear. Was I always unable to express the emotions I feel? Was I ever able to?  
    That’s enough thinking for now. I’m bumming myself out again. I walk out of the kitchen and go to the upstairs bathroom. Showering would be good to clear my head. Also, showering would be good period since I’m going out. 

        I put on clean clothes, decent jeans and a new black shirt. Rummaging through my closet for a something to wear over my shirt, I find my old cargo jacket. I run my fingers along the seams and try it on. It definitely fits even after years since I bought it. I glance to the side and look in my mirror. My hair's still damp since it’s on the longer side. If I cut off all my bangs, it would dry faster but I don’t particularly like having short hair. Whatever, I should probably start heading out. I grab my phone and shove it in my jacket when I feel something crumpled inside the pocket. I take it out and crack a smile to see I had forty dollars in here all this time. I doubt I’ll drink that much tonight so this has my evening covered. Then again, I’m having a phase of nothingness so I’m open to options tonight.   
        I contemplate on leaving a note but end up just walking out. It doesn’t really matter. Walking down the street, I put in my music to avoid spoiling my mentality by thinking too much. I just want to get back in the swing of living. I want to get in the habit of socializing and I want to stop acting so melancholy. Going out hopefully will change that. I’m going to see Roy, it’s been a month since I’ve seen him and for us, it’s been a long time. We’re going to celebrate because Sylvia is his soulmate and his friends found a good bassist. I like Holly and Reed, they’re very fun people. I need to have fun to move on and get out of my mentality. “Summer Of ‘69” plays through my earbuds and I walk in step with the guitars.

        Eastern Paris: I thought it would be some French idylls but apparently it’s not why it’s named Paris. The inside is lavish and classy as the others said it would be except right where you’d think there would be an Eiffel Tower, there’s not. I stop my music as I enter the bar, perambulating around the boisterous crowds. Roy, well over six foot, easily towers over the majority of the people here and I make my way towards them. As I join them on their side of the bar, Roy directs his attention to me. “Nikki,” he says uplifting, “hey, how are you?” He sets down his glass and gives me a half hug.”  
        “Adequate,” I reply and show a smile.   
        “I missed you, man. It’s been too long for us.”   
        “Yeah, I know.” I trail off thinking the last time we saw each other was my mother’s funeral. “Well, you’re back in town for the time being. Let’s make the most of it.”  
        “Hi, Nikki,” Holly says and takes a step towards me. I give her a quick hug. “My condolences,” she whispers in my ear.  
        “Thank you.” She steps back and I shake hands with Reed. “It’s good to see you guys again.”  
        “Sylvia, this is my best friend Nikolaevan,” Roy introduces.   
        “Nice to meet you, Nikol...”  
        “Eh, just stick with Nikki. It’s easier,” I say friendly. She gives a warm smile when I shake her hand. She’s a beautiful, young woman. It doesn’t look like she’s wearing much makeup, embracing her natural looks. Her hair is shorter than mine, having three-quarters of her head shaved with a unique design. Her bangs are tucked behind her left ear and her dangling earrings shimmer in the soft light. She’s dressed in summer wear with pastel colors and elegant wedge heels.  
        “I’m Sylvia Thomson.”  
        “Hey, Nikki, you still drink kamikazes?” Roy asks.  
        “Yeah, same way.”  
        “Cool,” he replies. He takes his seat and gestures to the bartender. “Paul?”  
        “How you guys doing?” he replies leaning over to us. He sounds like he used to live in the East coast and dresses like it too. “Need more?”  
        “Kamikaze on the rocks,” he answers.   
        “You got it, son.”  
        Roy gestures for me to take a seat next to him and join the conversation. The others discuss what they’re going to start working on and Sylvia is excited to learn their music and try recording. It’s almost an hour later and I have my third drink when I see her at the other side of the bar. She’s standing in the bar laughing with a few others taking shots. I completely freeze when I lay eyes on her. Her aesthetic completely causes my brain to falter. She has long, ebony hair cascading past her waist in luscious waves and a brilliant smile. Her makeup is very dramatic, her eyes emphasized with dark colors and thick eyelashes, her lips painted a bold ruby, her cheekbone and jawline very distinguished. As an artist, I’ve seen thousands of pictures how the human face is structured and her’s is ideally flawless. She’s drop dead gorgeous. Her sleeveless top rides up, relieving some of her midriff, and her black jeans have rips all up and down the front from her knees to her thighs. I don’t know who she is but I suddenly want to find out.   
        “Nikki?”  
        “Huh?” I snap away from staring at her and look at Holly.   
        She gives me a smile. “Roy told us you use to play piano. Would you be willing to play for some of our songs that have piano in it? None of us really know how to play well enough for the pieces we want to compose.”  
        “Oh, yeah, definitely,” I reply.  
        “Awesome,” Reed says taking another shot.   
        “Just let me know what you want me to do and like yeah,” I say. Holly gives me a smile and my attention falls back on the girl.  
        Roy glances at me then follows my line of sight. “Who are you checking out?”  
        “I-what?” I look at Roy and he nudges me.   
        “Bernie?” he questions, raising her eyebrows somewhat confused.  
        My face goes blank and I stare at him. “Uh, no. The girl over there, the one with the really long, dark hair.”  
        The others look back over there. “Bernie?” Reed echos.  
        “No, not any of the guys, the-”  
        “Nikki,” Roy says looking at me, “Bernie as in Bernadette.”  
        “Oh,” I mutter, my cheeks start burning red as I realize I’m an idiot.   
        “Well, most people call her either Bernie or Paris,” Sylvia says.   
        “Why Paris?” I ask.   
        She looks at me teasingly. “Because it’s her last name. Her father owns the bar.” That explains why it’s called Paris while lacking a French interior design.   
        I look back over at her. “I just think...she’s attractive. Doesn’t mean anything.”  
        “Go talk to her,” Roy encourages. I shake my head rapidly. “What? Come on, man, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”  
        “I could die,” I answer. Roy rolls his eyes at me. “It’s fine. I came here to hang out with you guys and I’m not ditching you for some girl.”  
        “Well, if she comes over here and you guys are soul mates, then we’ll all ditch you so you can be alone together,” Holly giggles, sipping her martini.   
        “Very funny,” I say. “Now, back to what you were saying earlier. Did you guys have some songs in mind?”  
        “We’re currently working on a piece right now with piano apart of the intro and bridge.” The others tell me more about their music and I engage more in their project. By the end of the night, I’m laughing with others and when I get home, I got a solid 10 hours of sleep, which was the first time since I graduated from college. 

        It dawns on my how bright the sun is and I can’t fall back asleep. It’s well after 1:30 if the sun is this blinding. I slept in my clothes from last night and my hair is back to it’s disheveled manner, my usual look. Last night was fun, I really enjoyed myself. Maybe it’s because it was the first time I’ve been out of the house that wasn’t to a hospital, funeral home, or cemetery. Maybe it’s because I was with Roy and the others, distracted from everything going on. Or simply the alcohol was doing it’s job, whatever. I get up and head downstairs, breaking my habit of isolation. I had a good time last night, it wasn’t a cure but it definitely was a remedy for my burn out. I know I should eat but I really want to grab my sketching materials. I break another habit and decide to prioritize food over a reason to stay in room.  
        I open the fridge and my eyes fall on the bowl of washed raspberries. After a few seconds, I realize I can either grab them or take something else. I shut the door and go into the cabinet. Cereal is a good option, cereal never hurt anyone. I sit on the counter in my spot and twirl my spoon in hand while chewing. My dad steps in and sees me.  
        “Oh, hi, Nikki. Didn’t know you were awake,” he says.   
        I swallow. “I didn’t know you were home,” I reply taking another bite.  
        “It’s Saturday, I have off.”  
        “Oh,” I mutter.   
        He looks at me sitting on the counter and I know he wants to tell me to go to the table and eat like a proper, civilized person would except when he does, my argument is Mom never saw it as a problem, Mom would always let me. Right now, I doubt he wants to get back into that fight; he doesn’t say anything, he closes his mouth and puts on a smile instead. “Where did you go last night?”  
        I lower my bowl in the sink and rinse it out. “Roy invited me to go to a bar with him and the others.” I shut off the water and hop to the floor.  
        “You went to the bar? What time did you get back home?”  
        “Late,” I say, dragging out the pronunciation.   
        “Elaborate.”  
        “I got back in a little after 3.” He looks at me wide eyed and in shock. “Okay, it would have been sooner but I walked home.”  
        “Why would you walk home? You know we have an extra car, it’s yours now.” Because Mom doesn’t need to drive around anymore, it’s officially mine.   
        “Dad, I was going to a bar with the intentions of getting drunk. Why would I drive there?”  
        “You don’t need to be getting drunk in the first place.”   
        “I’m an adult, I can drink and I can deal with the consequences. I’m 22.”  
        “Get your head back on your shoulders because you’re not as high and mighty as you think you are. I didn’t raise you to be irresponsible, getting drunk and coming in the house way after curfew.”  
        “Curfew applies to those under 18 and I just stated how old I am, over 18.” I glare at my father. Ever since I got back, all we really can do is fight. When Roman was in the hospital, that was the only time we were able to have a civil conversation without it turning into a disaster. My dad has just been on my ass for everything suddenly. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like I haven’t been drunk before.”  
        “What has gotten into you?!” he shouts.  
        “Me?! How about you? If you’re going to get angry about people being drunk, how about you start going off on the those moronic enough to drive while intoxicated? How about you get pissed at the drunk drivers speeding down our street? Instead of me, why don’t you go find who killed Mom and tell them to fuck off?” I throw my hands in the air.  
        “Nikolaevan, do not talk to me like I am one of your friends! You do not use that language.”   
        “I don’t talk to my friends that way!” I sneer back, trying my best to hide the shaking in my voice.  
        “Then why are you talking to me that way.”  
        “I don’t need to because they don’t ever speak to me the way you do.”I stare at him waiting for him to say something back. When did talking suddenly become an argument? At what point did we start screaming at each other? I’m tempted to tell him I hate him but I don’t say it. As pissed as I am, I know to never say it. I can’t take the words I say back and I’d rather my dad hear me swear in front of him than hear me tell him something that’s not true. I don’t want to be angry so I need to leave without saying another word because at this point, I don’t know what I’m capable of saying now.   
        I turn around and storm out of the room. “Nikolaevan,” my father calls out firmly but I ignore him. “Nikki, get back here.” No thanks. I don’t have time to stop. I grab my art binder as I walk past the table, throwing the worn strap over my shoulder and kicking up my shoes. I don’t have time to put them on. I just swing open the door and start running down our driveway with my binder swaying behind my and my shoes in my hand. I make it to the end of the block and I plop down on the curb to slip on my shoes. I don’t know if he’s going to follow me with the car or not but in case he does, I’m going through the alley.   
        Am I at fault here? I thought I was pretty good on my part, I knew I would be legally drunk so I wasn’t going to take the car. And it’s not a crime for me to be drunk, it’s not an everyday occurrence. I’m 22, I can legally drink. I have been for over a year. I mean, sure I’ve been drinking longer but when I turned 21, it was officially acceptable by law. And I use my own goddamn money. I’m not taking his or stealing for it. What is his problem? He was just attacking me. I make it to the other side and start walking down the street. It wasn’t my fault, I didn’t start yelling for no reason. He had no point, I didn’t do anything wrong. 

        I remember if my father and I ever started fighting, it usually ended up with me going to my room angry or upset. My mom would talk to my dad and when he was calm, she’d come to my room and explain to my what my father failed to express. She would make me feel better and she would always listen. Now that she’s gone, we’ve been fighting a lot more. He’s been on my case for isolating myself, saying I’ve become unreasonable now. Well, sure I have. My mother died, you expect me to act as if though I only dropped a glass of water? What does he expect from me? I know I wasn’t there when she died and I know she wasn’t my soulmate and I know I wasn’t the other child who was hit by the car but I can still miss her! Yeah, I was out at a bar drunk with my friends but that doesn’t mean I’m reckless. I didn’t do that every night. Yeah, I was in college and I partied but I only attended one about once a month, I’m pretty lame when it comes to attending all the social events. I’m not the irresponsible jackass he thinks I am. Yes, I was wasted when my mom died and I didn’t answer the phone but it’s not like it was a random Tuesday it happened, it was the night I graduated.   
        He’s pissed I’m upset because he doesn’t think I’m entitled to mourn as much as he and Roman since I wasn’t there. He’s pissed I’ve changed and completely shut down. He’s pissed I’m constantly pissed, whatever. Mom is the one who wiped all my tears, she never told me to get over it because it ‘wasn't a big deal’. She was the one who marveled over every one of my drawings, no matter how much of a scribble they were. She never doubt my work or questioned why I thought it should go on the fridge and she never considered it clutter. She didn’t think my love for comic books was an obsession that needed to end. She never told me to stop eating raspberries and she never declined my requests to go to the park. My mom always listened to me and she loved me so much, she loved every ounce of who I was and she believed in me. My dad loves me because I’m his son but there is a difference in loving your child and believing in them. My dad doesn’t always believe in my but my mother did, she never doubted me. How am I not suppose to miss her as much as I do? How am I supposed to continue functioning as if my life hasn’t been drastically changed. So lately I haven’t seen her every day like I did when I was a kid but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t effect my everyday life nevertheless. Before, even when I wasn’t at home, I knew if I ever needed Mom, she would be there for me. Now I’m at home every day and I can cry all night but I’ll never have her comfort again. I’m still going through my life without her apart of it but at least before, I knew she was still able to take care of me, now I know she never can.  
        I dig my nails into my thumb. I’m thinking too much again, I need to stop. I reach for my back pocket and I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk. I left my phone at home. I don’t have my music now to shut up my head. Oh, this is quite perfect, genius. It’s the twenty first century and you don't have your phone on you? You might as well forgot one of your hands at home because you’re highly dysfunctional without your music. Shut up! I shake my head side to side rapidly as if that will help. Of course it makes no difference because I feel my emptiness creeping in again. I need a distraction from my thoughts. I need to stop them from poisoning my head. I was getting better and I was coming back. Then I had to get in an argument. I should have just skipped eating, grabbed my binder, and retreated to my sanctuary. Well, now I have my binder but I’d rather have my music over my binder if I’m going to be in public or thinking at this rate. Then across the street I spot a possible solution to slowing down my thoughts. The bar Eastern Paris is on the end of the corner. I still have money from last night. I can get a drink or two to help ease my tension, also I’m feeling very spiteful right now.   
        I open the door and wait for two girls to walk out before I go in. The sunlight fills the room, giving the place a much brighter and more open. I go down to the deserted end and sit down. Well, I did want to draw and I do have my material. I open my binder and take out my newer sketchbook. I’m glad Roy salvaged them from my stupidity because I would have loathed myself if I followed through on tossing them. I flip open to the next blank page and stop for a minute. Drawing is very easy for me, the hard part is figuring out what. I twirl my pencil around in my hand between my index finger. I glance around the bar for some inspiration. It would be best if I started working on my next project soon. In the first book, I established the relation between Kelsey and Tyler. The school and the basic characters have been introduced. I ended the first book with Kelsey and Tyler at the party agreeing to their little bet, both intending on winning. So now I need to start planning what happens next.   
        I twirl my pencil in my hand thinking for what I want to sketch. Paul walks over to me behind the counter. “Hey, long time no see,” he jokes around. “Can I get you anything?”   
        “Kamikaze on the rocks?”   
        “You got it,” he says going back. “I never caught your name?”   
        I look up at him and bite my lip. Should I...why not? “Cole,” I answer. “And you’re Paul Paris?”  
        “Yep,” he says. He grabs a glass and drops ice inside before pouring out the drink, filtering the ice inside. He slides it over to me and I take it.   
        I tap my pencil against the counter, then turn around in the seat. I don’t really need to start pulling ideas out, I just need to find something to get myself working. There’s not nearly half as many people as there were last night. My eyes scan around the crowds when I see her again. Bernadette stands over by a group of people and serving them drinks. She’s laughing with the group of people, about what I don’t know. Her hair is in a high pony tail today but it’s so long it still reaches her lower back. Her makeup is the same style, her eyes have a natural look with thick black eye line stuff and her lipstick’s a maroon-violet today. She has similar jeans like last night and a tight shirt that matches the color of her lipstick with a leather jacket on. Without a second thought, I start sketching her. My pencil lightly draws over the paper creating the outlines of her figure and face dimensions. There’s no way I could ever manage to recreate her into a version of Kelsey. Kelsey would never dare look so gothic or badass. Kelsey is completely different from this girl but I draw her anyway.   
After another drink, I have a very quick but rather good drawing of Bernadette. I drew her laughing with her hands in her pocket because I didn’t feel like dealing with making her her hands were identical, I don’t care that much right now. I flip to another page and start drawing Kelsey and Tyler at a bar. They’re both looking at each other smugly thinking they will win but have no idea what they’re up against. I don’t think they’re technically old enough to drink yet but it’s not like they wouldn’t have fake ID’s anyway. They seem like the type who would.   
        I make an outline of exactly what I want the sequel to incorporate and where I want it to end. I’ve introduced the main characters so now I make a list of the sub characters who will appear and their purpose to the plot. I then list the chronological order of the details in Kelsey and Tyler’s relationship. They’re going to go on a few dates and be in the “lust” phase of a relationship, at least pretending. The outline comes along and I order everything although I complete as much as I can with my paper. I’m going to need to get back to my laptop in order to make anymore progress. I pay Paul while I start packing up my binder.   
        “You an artist?” he asks while handing back my change.   
        “What?” I ask throwing the strap over my shoulder.   
        “I saw you had a sketchbook and were drawing. You’re an artist.”  
        “Oh, yeah. I guess I am.” I take back my change and fold it in my pocket.   
        “You guess?” he smiles. “You either you are or you aren’t and since you were drawing, it means you are.” I chuckle lightly. “Well, I was going to say there’s an art store over on 5th down the way. I think it may have some things of your interest. Anyways, take care.”  
        “Thanks, have a good day.” I wave to him as I walk out. I shovel my hands in my pocket and sneak a glance past Paris on my way out. Maybe I was being creepy but it’s really hard to not look at her. Her beauty is addicting for the eyes even if she’s just reading behind the counter with her feet propped up on the stool across from her ankles interlocked and hair spiraling down over her face. Okay, I’m very creepy, whatever. It’s not like I’m ever going to talk to her so everything’s fine.   
I take up his offer on checking out the art supplies store called Artist Divine. It’s a very quaint shop but definitely a high quality one. There is an entire wall of canvases of all dimensions. There are a variety of sketchbooks. Some are standard size, other rather larger. There’s different types. Thin paper for tracing, color pencil paper, watercolor paper, oil pastel paper, everything. There’s cases of Prismacolor color pencils all different quantity sets, an entire shelf full of copic markers of every pigment imaginable. Bottle of acrylic paint, water color, oil paints. Matt media, glossy media, finished media. This little shop is the place artists dream of having in heaven.   
        “Can I help you, sir?” There’s a young girl wearing a name tag. Karen.   
        “Oh, I’m just browsing around. I was told this place has really good art supplies.”   
        “Yeah, I love what they sell here. It’s very high quality brands and material.” She glances at my side. “Are you looking for a new portfolio?” Karen asks.   
        “Uh, actually, it would be good if I invested in a new one. This is mine from freshman year of high school so it’s a bit worn down. I also used it through all of college.”  
        “It’s had a good long run,” she says with an encouraging smile. “  
        “Where would those be by chance?”   
        “Down the aisle and on the right.” I walk over to the back right and find a few racks of different leather portfolio binders. One catches my eye. It’s black leather with a really nice dual metal clasp to hold it together. The inside has slots to neatly store pencils and it has pouches inside to contain pencil cases and markers. It’s a really good binder and the best part, the interior is cerulean blue, the exact shade of my favorite color. It had an adjustable strap which was rather comfortable. Mine lacks padding so it would dig into my shoulder after a while but this is high quality. It’s also $150. I do have that money, just not on me. I’ll have to come back another day and get it. I’ll probably swing by tomorrow or something. I take the one I want and bring it up to the front.   
        “Hi, Karen?”  
        “Found one?” she asks heading over to the register.   
        “Yeah, I really like this one but I came in here to browse so I don’t have the money right now. You think you could put this one aside and I’ll stop by tomorrow and pay for it?”  
        “Oh, yeah, totally. Under what name?”   
        “Cole?” I whisper nervously. She gives me a reassuring smile and take it to the back. I browse around the store. I could easily spend thousands of dollars in this place if I had the money to. My eyes wander around all the different colors of supplies and the clean and blank canvases and papers. So much art, so many possibilities My eyes scan over the windows and I see a HELP WANTED sign. Karen steps back over to the register. “Um, hey, are you guys still looking for new employees?”  
        “You want to work her?” she asks with a smile.  
        “I think I would enjoy here.” Karen gestures for me to come over. She turns behind and rummages through a filing cabinet and takes out a few forms. 

        I’m halfway home when it starts raining but I don’t really mind. It’s a rather warm rain. I would be upset if I did buy the leather portfolio with the rain ruining it so quickly. My binder is old and beat up. It’s got it’s use out of it but it still has it’s good. I’ve been caught in plenty of rain storms, ones much more monsoon-like than this, to know my artwork and notes are safe. I step into my house and take off my shoes at the front. I’m going to need to change and I feel like showering now.   
        My father is sitting in the front room. I glance at him but then avert my gaze, pretending his not there. Maybe if I don’t look at him, he won’t notice I’m here. “Nikki,” he says. Drat, well, that didn’t work. “Where did you go?”  
        “Out,” I answer very abruptly.  
        “What did you do?”  
        “I got a job.”  
        “You got a job?” he asks crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.   
        “Yeah, I just said that.”  
        “Where?”  
        “Just an art supplies store a few blocks down.” I untangle myself from the binder’s strap so I can take off my jacket and brush my damp hair out of my face.  
        “Why would you get a job. I thought you were going to be a writer?”  
        I snap my head in his direction because I’m getting mixed signals from him. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or being spiteful from the argument. “It’s a really good art store and I thought it would be fun.”  
        “It’s work, Nikki, work is work, not fun.”  
        “Okay, what are you getting at?” I ask. “Are you implying I can’t enjoy my job? I can’t get a job for fun or for extra money to save up for when I get a place of my own?” My dad doesn’t say anything. I roll my eyes and walk upstairs. I grab a hand towel out of the closet and start wiping down my binder. Setting it down on my dresser, I pick up my phone and see a few texts from Roy. Well, I really want to shower first so I’ll respond to him afterwards. 

        Drying off my hair, I start calling Roy. While the phone’s ringing, I drop my towel to the floor and hop over to my closet. I start rummaging through my closes. “I need a shirt still,” I mutter to myself trying to find any shirt to just throw on when the line picks up.  
        “What?”  
        “Uh, hi.”  
        “Do you not have a shirt?”  
        “Well, no. I just showered. Um, what’s up?”  
        “Nothing much, are you busy tonight?” he asks.   
        “Considering I have no life, not at all.”  
        “Heh, same. But I was wondering, adn listening, if you don’t want to, you’re not obligated, okay?”  
        “Just say it, Roy. I’m not going to get irritated.”  
        “Would you want to come over and help us with the album cover? You’re really good at drawing and I was wondering if you’d be interested. If you don’t, I completely understand.”  
        “Dude, that’s totally fine. I’d love to. Any time in mind?”   
        “Whenever really, we ordered pizza so if you didn’t eat yet, there’ll be plenty. One request though first before you come over.”   
        “Yeah, what’s up?” I ask.   
        “Put on a shirt first.”  
        “Oh, shut up,” I laugh. “I’ll be over shortly. See you, man.”  
        “Alright, bye, Nikki.” He ends the call and I pocket my phone in my jeans. I grab my Aerosmith shirt and pull it on then take my grey hoodie and throw it on. I make sure I have my earbuds this time when I leave the house. I pack my binder with materials I’ll possibly need and throw the strap over my shoulder. My dad doesn’t question me when I step out this time, which I’m perfectly okay with. I pop in my earbuds and hit shuffle. Without looking, I skip the first couple of songs but when Aerosmith “Walk This Way” comes on, I let it play. I can’t skip it since I’m wearing their shirt currently. My strides step in time with the guitar and the rhythm of the chorus.   
        I probably should have taken the car but I really didn’t feel like driving right now. It’s so nice out, the air is rather cooling with a warm wind and the sun is setting. The sky has the most fantastic sights of reds, oranges, and pinks. The intricate and unique patterns in the clouds add the the beauty. I rather enjoy walking so I’ll pass on the car. And the address he texted me isn’t far away. Granted, if it was the other side of town, I would have taken the car. I can walk a mile though. My legs still function, I’m using it to the best of my ability.   
        I make it to Roy’s place after four songs playing. “Hey, Nikki,” he greets me and I step inside. It’s a nice apartment, everything is in arm's reach and the walls are painted a deep mauve color. “You hungry?”  
        “Yeah, I could eat,” I answer. We walk over to the dining room. Holly, Reed, and Sylvia are sitting there eating while reviewing notes. “Hi, guys,” I say giving a brief wave. They greet me in return and I join them.   
        “So we were wondering if you could design the album cover?” Holly asks.   
        “Definitely, what did you have in mind?” I ask, opening up my binder.   
        “Well, the album is called The Second Gilded Age and it’s how we glorify our lives when really we are deep down corrupt but trying to hide those facts. We were thinking something along the lines of a rose with really bright petals but the ones underneath are rotting and wilting and there are petals falling off the rose.”  
        “Damn, that’s pretty good,” I say nodding along. I flip open my sketch book looking for my blank page when something catches Roy’s attention.   
        “Wait, stop, go back!” he says.   
        “Huh?”  
        “Go back like two pages.” I flip back and the sketch I did of Paris falls open. “What’s this?”  
        I sigh. “Okay, I think she’s attractive, I can’t respect a person for having been blessed with beautiful features?”  
        “Talk to her, find out if she’s your soulmate!” Roy urges and I roll my eyes. “Why not, man?”  
        “Look, I just don’t think she’s the one and I’m okay with that. I’m not…I don’t want anything right now. I need to sort of like, kinda yeah.” I look up at Roy and he stares at me completely blank. “I don’t know,” I mutter. I flip the page quickly a few more times and come across the blank section. “Can we-what did you want? A rose?”  
        “Mmm, yeah.”  
        “At what angle?” I ask them.   
        Holly gestures with her hands. “Like you can see most of the top but the bottom is also clearly visible too. So you can see the top is all pretty but also notice only if you look carefully what’s underneath is rotten.” I start drawing the rose. Roses are fun to draw. Starting in the center, you work your way out making each petal bigger and bigger as you go. I start working on the bottom part, adding depth to the rose and placing the location of the falling petals fluttering down.   
I start going through my minder to dig out my color pencils when Reed glances at what I have so far. “Whoa, that’s really good so far.” The others glance over and they exclaim in excitement.   
        “Nikki, that’s awesome,” Holly tells me.   
        “Thanks,” I answer and opening up my color pencil case. I take out my reds and start shading them in red, switching direction of coloring so it’s undetected and seamless. I add darker reds and a bit of browns to the shadow parts and then I start adding the rotten aspects of the underside and to the petal, shading in a textured cracks in the petals. Continuing on with my relaxing project, the others start arranging the order of their songs. They’ve written out all the pieces and songs completely so now they’re ordering them for the best transition of sound from song to song. By tonight, the plan for their album cover art will be complete as will the order of their songs. All they have left is the actual recording and it’ll be finished. I hope they find a record label who will be interested in their work because it’s good music. I’ve heard bits and pieces and it’s awesome. I have strong faith in them they will go far in the years to come with their work.   
        I finish drawing the rose and start packing up. I do hang out with them for a few more hours, laughing and reminiscing about our college days and telling Sylvia about some stupid things we did over the years. She returns the favor by telling us about her college experience. It’s nothing more than innocuous rhapsody. By the time our conversation approaches a close, it’s after 1 a.m. They all thank me for the design and they’re really excited. They finished the ordering and everything else music people need to do before recording and whatnot. I’m not entirely sure. Heading out the door, I start making my way home. Things are looking well for our careers. Roy and I probably won’t see each other much for the next few months. He’ll be bust recording and I’ll be busy writing. I’m excited for us though. I’d like to think one day those four will be on a massive stage with thousands of people singing along to the lyrics they composed at 3 am. They’ll be shining in the lights living out their passions and their childhood dreams, everything people told them they couldn’t do. I know they’re going to go far and prove everyone who told them they need to grow they were wrong.   
        I step up to my front door and notice a medium-sized package on the side of our porch addressed to me. I pick it up and step in the house. It’s rather heavy for it’s size. Kicking the door shut with my foot, I flip on the lights and set it on the table. With my house key, I slice the packing tape open and open the box. Inside are a dozen printed copies of First One Loses. I gasp out and pick on of them up. It’s my story printed, the dialogue is what I wrote and these are all my drawings. Kelsey Bond and Tyler Becker are in a printed graphic novel. I flip the the cover and see the drawing of them with their arms crossed and their backs leaning against one another. I remember drawing this in college on my laptop in the library. Oh my god, this is really happening. First One Loses written by Nikolaevan Brooks.


	5. My Life and Drinks are on the Rocks

        I remember when I was a little kid, I would sit in the back seat with Roman and we would be giggling about the water droplets on the window. When driving through a storm with the rain beating down the car, my brother and I found great entertainment watching the rain drops racing each other. We would pick which drop we think would win when they were still at the top and then start encouraging and screaming over the race of water and gravity. Our parents never understood how two little boys were so entertained by water droplets in the car but they didn’t question it. Looking out my window from my room, I think the left rain drop is going to win. Right started out strong but the left one was catching up rather quickly.   
        I twirl my pencil in my hand when a car alarm suddenly snaps me out of my little phase out staring at the rain. I drop my pencil and I watch it fall on my jacket which I haven’t picked up yet. Sighing, I lean back and stare at my computer. Well, I completed 14 pages today. I really want to finish this book but I also know rushing through it will turn it to shit real quick. I save my work then head down stairs. Roman’s sitting in the kitchen on his phone playing some game making a sharp pinging noise every few seconds. He glances up at me for half a second before looking back down at his phone.  
        “Hey, Nikki,” he calls out.   
        “Hi, Dad at work?”  
        “Yep, left an hour ago.” I nod along. “These last few months you’ve been arguing less.”  
        “Yeah, but doesn't mean everything’s all peachy.” I walk over to the fridge and grab the bowl of raspberries.   
        “Awe, crap,” Roman mutters under his breath.  
        “What, lose your game?” I start eating them one after another.  
        “Yeah... I told myself I would start my paper after I lost this game. Now I have to start my paper.”  
        I roll my eyes and chuckle. “Oh, just do it. I had to go through college work, it’s your turn now.”  
        “Well, yeah but you went to a liberal arts school. All you guys did was paint fruits and sing songs and write stories.”  
        I spin around on my heels and glare at him. “Excuse me? You think that shit’s easy?”  
        “You make it look easy,” he grumbles.  
        “Let me tell you, every assignment we got was at least two existential crises and a whole new wave of self-doubt.”         Roman starts laughing while shaking his head. “Oh, what?”  
        “You get really sassy when you’re angry,” he points out. “You’re waving your hands in the air and just you have such attitude in your posture, it’s rather entertaining, I should say.”  
        I glare at him and roll my eyes, letting out a sigh and strolling into the kitchen. It’s not that feel like washing the dishes and tidying up but I need a break from writing and a few hours to kill before it’s my shift for work.   
        I don’t mind work at all. I don’t have to deal with a bunch of stuck up people. I’ve got to say, people who work in customer service pertaining to food are the real heros. I mean, the waiters and baristas and people who work at fast food have to put up with a lot. Thankfully I don’t have to deal with moronic fools every day demanding impossible or illogical requests. Sure, some snob waltzes in every once in awhile but it's a rarity. Knowing there are people having to deal with someone like that everyday, I handle it rather placid. More or less, the people who come in are very open and have the bubbly art personality but everyone is very diverse. I have people from neon hair to the type to wear flower crowns come in. Some customers wear flannels around their waist while others have leather jackets zipped up. Working there is enjoyable. 

        “Hey, Roman, I’m heading out, okay?” I call out as I put much shoes on by the foyer.   
        “When are you getting back?”  
        “Uh, 8:30-9? I’m closing today.”  
        “Bye!” he calls out.   
        “Bye,” I echo, “and finish your paper!” I hear him scowl as I shut the door and walk to the car. I would walk to work but I don’t particularly feel like getting caught in the rain for the second day in a row. Yesterday, it started drizzling while I was starting my way home and by the time I stepped into the house, I was soaked. One of these days, I’m going to get pneumonia, whatever. I rarely use this car. I’ve been home for nearly a year now and I’ve had it as long but I can only really using the car a handful of times. Roman uses it more than I do to drive himself to class downtown but it would be stingy of me to deny him the car when I won’t use it at all. Roman doesn’t have class today so I might as well drive myself.   
        Between working now and receiving royalties, I’ve been making rather a lot more money. By the end of the month, I’ll have another advancement Martha said somewhere between 7,500 and 10,000. Even if I get the bare minimum, I’ll still appreciate it greatly. I’ve been saving up to hopefully buy myself an apartment of my own. I mean, I have no real reason to move out besides the fact I wouldn’t be questioned and nitpicked over every minuscule action of mine. If my dad really needed help at home, I would stay but he doesn’t. Roman is long healed, it’s not like he has to pay off for the house because it’s been for decades. Nothing’s broken that needs to be fixed. And despite my father disagreeing with my existence, he’s not once asked if I was ever going to move out or pressured me to do so. I have to give the man credit for that, whatever.   
        My day consists of restocking the color pencil cases, making sure the acrylic paint bottles are at the front of the shelf and reorganizing the canvases, they always seem to end up in the wrong place. There was this one girl with purple eyes who came in. I looked at her and she explained to me there were colored contacts. She needed a new set of paintbrushes and she ended up getting three as well as parchment palettes. I saw Karen for an hour but then Jody came in to replace her. The two of us close up shop quickly together so I ended up leaving at 8:20 today. 

        When I step into the house, it’s quiet. Roman must have fallen asleep again. Hopefully the kid wrote his paper. I head downstairs and find him curled up on the couch with this laptop resting on his legs. I swipe the touch pad and see he’s at least typed the whole thing but I doubt he edited anything. I sit on the floor next to him and start going through his paper. I have no idea what this is about but considering he utilized the word “that” four times in the opening sentence and his thesis is in the middle of his intro, this will take some work.  
        I read through everything for a second time and it should be more correct now than before. I save his work and close it shut when he suddenly jumps up. “It’s okay, I’m putting your computer over here so it doesn’t fall. He looks around and reaches for it. “I edited for you, don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”  
        “I, wow, that’s Nikki,” he says and then lifts himself up. He takes his phone out, someone’s calling him, which explains why he jumped. It’s on vibrate. “Hello?” he whispers then yawning.   
        I place his laptop on the coffee table and head upstairs. I turn my phone off airplane mode and plan on texting Roy. Changing out of my work uniform, my phone notifies me of two missed calls, both unknown numbers, and a text from Roy. I swipe the call notifications away and respond to him. Just got off from work. What’s up? I lie back and browse through my apps, scrolling through the feed. Considering he texted me two hours ago, it’ll be a while before he responds.   
        There’s a faint tapping on my door. “Yeah?” I call out. Roman swings it open and looks at me. “Hey.”   
        “Did someone call you?” I sit up at look at him. He glances down at his phone then back up at me. “Did you get any calls?”  
        “Yeah, but they’re both unknown numbers...Why?”  
“Uh, Dad’s in the hospital.”  
“What?” I bolt up and get off my bed. “Roman, what?”  
“He’s in the hospital now. He had a heartattack.”   
My brain stalls for a moment and I don’t know what to do. My father’s in the hospital now, he’s not home from work, which he should have been by now. Roman didn’t realize because he fell asleep and I just got home. How was I supposed to realize something was wrong? Roman puts his head down and starts whimpering, which snaps me back to functioning. “Hey, um, let’s go. Get a jacket or something. Come on,” I say calmly. I put a hand on his shoulder and look at him in the eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Roman.”  
“What if it’s not?” he whispers. I give him a grim smile and hug him. I can’t answer that question. I throw on a jacket and grab the keys and head out the door with him. Maybe there’s something wrong with me or I’m in denial but I don’t feel threatened to cry. Roman’s in the passenger shaking and doing his best to keep himself together. Perhaps it’s because I’m not close with my dad? I was really close with my mom, that’s why I was so devastated but I still love my father.

It’s a year later and I’m back in the hospital sitting in this stupid chairs. I refused to sit in them for the longest time but I started freaking out Roman. Apparently watching me pace back and forth for 45 minutes freaks him out. I offered to step out of the room so he wouldn’t watch me but at that point I was just being ridiculous. Yes, I was very calm the whole time there but I was also antsy. Those types of feelings you can melt into the floor and waste away for hours but also you’re up to go conquer Rome again. I don’t want to do anything but I need to do something, go for a run or at least a walk. However, Roman asked me to stay with him. As brothers, we always joke around and annoy each other but he’s my little brother. I don’t like seeing him genuinely sad, which is how I ended up back in this insalubrious seats. My tailbone is numb and my legs are in dire need of a walk now. I glance at my watch, it’s well after 10 now and my eyes are burning. Just when I was starting to get back in the habit of sleeping like a standard person, life decides to take a drastic measure to ensure it won’t happen.   
Roman has curled up in two seats and resumed his nap from the house. The chair arm must be digging into his spine but somehow, it doesn't phase him as uncomfortable. I slump down and cross my ankles, stretching out. My arms fold over and I lower my head down. A quick catnap won’t hurt me. Besides, sleeping is more productive than waiting. I wish I brought something to do to pass the time.  
I stop fighting sleep and finally drift off. It doesn’t seem like an hour but it has been. At 11:14 p.m. I snap awake to the sound of a continuous ringing. There’s doctors in here and a nurse comes over to us. I grab Roman’s shoulder a little too aggressively because it makes a loud smack noise and his head whips into the wall. Before he can smack me in return or exclaim in pain, he hears it too. His throbbing head no longer hurts when the nurse comes over to us. “I’m sorry,” she says, “you’re father’s passed.”

        I didn’t cry when I realized he was gone and I didn’t cry when we got home. I was numb and I didn’t feel like crying. Is there something wrong with me? Roman broke down several times already and he fell asleep crying just now. I know Roman was close to Dad the way I was close to Mom but Roman still cried when Mom died. I haven’t yet and I don't think I will. What’s worse is I think I’m more distressed in how I’m handling this rather than my father’s death. What’s wrong with me? My dad’s gone and I am almost indifferent about him gone. I couldn’t stop crying over my mom and everything shut down when I found out she was gone. I wanted nothing more than her back but I’ve accepted her death.   
        It’s 1 in the morning and I turn my phone on. Roy texted me back hours ago but I haven’t realized. The guy’s probably sleeping but I need to talk to him right now. Pressing his contact, I wait for him to pick up. On the fifth ring, he picks up. “Hi, Nikki? You’re still up?”  
        “Yeah,” I croak. “Are you in the middle of anything?”  
        “Watching TV, nothing important. What’s up?”  
        “I-I think I need help.”  
        “What’s going on? Are you okay?” He becomes very serious. “Nikki?”  
        “My dad’s gone, he had a heart attack,” I whisper.   
        “Oh my god, that’s terrible,” he says.   
        “I’m not really sure what to do. Roman’s asleep and he took it really hard but I seem to have accepted it. Is-is there something wrong with me for not being as upset?”  
        There’s a pause on the phone. “Well, you were really close with your mom and this last year, you and your dad have been fighting a lot more. I think you accept it easier because you already lost one parent, most your pain already left when she died.”  
        “I haven’t cried yet. I cried when Mom was gone but I haven’t yet.” My voice is shaking now but there’s still no tears. What’s wrong with me? Do I really not care about my father?  
        “I’ve never seen you cry,” Roy says on the other end.   
        “Yeah, try not to,” I comment.   
        “Well, maybe that’s why you’re not crying for your dad. Your mom was always the one who comforted you when you were upset. You told me she would take you to the park to cheer you up. Your dad however didn’t really care if you were crying, he wanted you to stop instead. So you don’t think crying is the appropriate way to mourn for your dad.” I lie back on my bed and rub my face frustrated. “Listen, Nikki, I know you and him lately have been having your differences but I know you love him. Don’t beat yourself up over how you physically take the news. You don’t have to cry to be sad and you don’t have to be sad to prove you loved him.”  
        “Thank you,” I tell him.  
        “Don’t mention it. Are you going to be okay?”  
        “Hopefully,” I mutter. “I can tell I’m going to get better after this is over. With my mom, I didn’t think I could.”  
        “I know, Nikki. It’ll be okay. I’m here for you, alright?”  
        “Yeah, thanks,” I sigh.   
        “What’s on your mind?”  
        I contemplate on opening that can of worms but I decide to get it off my mind anyway. “We never used to fight this much. We were never bitter to each other. It was just after I got home and I resent myself for that. I remember that last thing I ever told my mom was I love you but I don’t with my dad however I know it was a stupid fight. We just fight and…” I getting frustrated again.  
        “You know how you told me you were more like your mom?”  
        “Yeah?”  
        “Maybe you reminded him too much of here. She was his soulmate and he loved her so much. Roman is like him, that’s why they don’t argue, they’re the same but you’re like your mom. He sees her in you and he misses you. It doesn’t justify what he did was right but at least it’s a reason for why, hopefully an understandable one.”  
        “Thank you, Roy.”  
        “I told you, I’m here, okay? Do you still want to talk?”  
        “Ehh, I think I’m going to sleep now or at least try to.”  
        “Sounds good, night, Nikki.”  
        “Night, Leroy.” I hang up the phone then roll over to charge it. I hobble over to the wall and turn off my lights before flopping back on my bed. I don’t feel like changing. 

        Black ties, black shirts, black dresses, black hats, black gloves, black shoes. People wear black to funerals, which I don’t understand. Who designated black to be the mourning color? Considering a majority of my cloths is black, it wasn’t difficult dressing for the funeral.  
        Something’s not right in my head. Yes, I was very upset, I was attending my father’s funeral but I wasn’t devastated. I drove Roman to the funeral home early in the morning. He was very quiet and upset, understandably but I wasn’t as hurt. I didn’t cry at all during the funerals. I didn’t cry hearing my uncle talk nor did I cry when I saw my father lying in the casket and say goodbye to him one last time. I didn’t cry seeing all my family members cry and I didn’t shed a single tear when his casket was lowered into the ground at the cemetery. But I was still greatly upset. My aunt hugged me when we were leaving and said I was being “strong for my brother”, which I don’t think is the case. Roy comforted me before we left the cemetery and reminded me I wasn’t going crazy, which did help. 

        It’s raining when we get home. Roman doesn’t want to talk when we step in the house. He says goodnight early and goes to his room shutting his door. I sit in the kitchen and put my head on the table. What am I going to do? Both of my parent are gone now. Are we technically orphans now even though I’m 23 and Roman’s 20? Do you have to be under 18 to be considered an orphan? Is that because people think once you’re an adult you don’t need your parents anymore because that is utter bullshit. Now that my father’s gone, I miss my mom again. Going back to the hospital reminded me all too much of it. I need to pay for the house now and all the bills it comes with. Well, I think the house is already paid off but there’s going got to be some other property tax I’ll have to figure out how to do. Roy’s an accountant, I can ask him for advice or pay him to do it for me. And then there’s Roman’s student loans. Oh my god, now I really want to cry thinking about handling this. I probably should have figured this out when I was younger, granted I never thought this day would come. Roman has two years of school left. Whatever my dad saved in the bank will go to that, hopefully it’ll cover it. I’m going to have to work more now than before. Well, it’s a good thing I started saving my money and haven’t been spending anything. The only thing I bought with my money from work was Roy a new amp for his guitar on his birthday.   
        I can figure out the bills later, right now I need to clear my head. The thunder claps throughout the night and echoes around. Bright flashes of lightning dance across the sky. It’s rather dangerous outside right now but also quite beautiful. Leaning back in the chair, I start loosening my tie. I head up to my room and change out of my dress shirt and slacks, putting on jeans, a flannel, and my leather jacket on. It’s a perfect time to go for a walk right now.   
        I head down to the foyer and slip on my converse and flip up my hood before heading out the door. The rain beats down hard and starts soaking me rather quickly. After a few steps, my shoes are already wet from the puddles accumulating on the driveway. Through the inside of my jacket, I pull up the wire of my earbuds and pop them in, playing my music. It takes me a realize to my music is playing because the thunder drowns out the intro to A Flock Of Seagulls. 

        I end up walking myself to the bar completely soaked head to toe. My shoes make an obnoxious squeaking noise as I step cautiously to avoid slipping. My socks are soggy and my clothes soaked through and through. I wouldn’t be surprised if I got pneumonia by now but I always wouldn’t care. The bar has a warmer atmosphere than the rain so maybe I won't get sick, whatever. There’s a lot of people in here of all ages celebrating and cheering loudly. However, they may have a reason to. Someone might have gotten engaged or one of their friends got a promotion. Maybe someone is moving so this is their last night out with their friends. People have a reason to celebrate, which is why they are at a bar. But I’m here for the complete opposite reason. I just want to clear my head and if possibly, forget about my sorrows.   
        I have a 20 on me so I can spare a few drinks. Most of the boisterous folks are over in the back today. I sit in the front, sliding into the stall at the counter and just put my head down. My clothes are completely soaked and I’m a cold, soggy mess right now. What am I even upset about? My father died and I didn’t cry about it. I love him, right? Am I being a snobbish, pompous brat who thinks FREEDOM because that is not what I want to be like. Why can’t I cry? What’s worse is I’m more hung up over my grieving style rather than who I should be grieving. I never been one to cry but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I did a lot when I was younger but the only person who ever saw was my mother. If she wasn’t home because she had a busy day at work and it was just my father, I didn’t cry until I went to my room and shut the door. I don’t cry in front of people so if I came looking for tears from myself, a bar won’t provide any.   
        There are only a couple of people who have seen my cry. Obviously my mother countless times. I recall my second grade teacher noticed I was crying when I found out we weren’t going on a field trip to meet our pen pals but she let me go to get a drink of water from the hallway so none of my peers noticed. And my father saw me cry I think once when Mom died. He saw me sniffle a few times but I get the hint he was irritated at me for being a sissy boy so I sucked it up in front of him. I wasn’t going to keep it inside when Mom was gone. I cried for her but not for my dad?  
        I didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral until I excused myself from her grave site and started walking down the cemetery. When I was alone and out of earshot from the rest of my family, I cried. I walked down to some other grave site, sat myself in the dirt and just bawled ceaselessly. When I finally caught my breath and calmed down for the most part, I made sure my eyes were dry and my cheeks were no longer red and my voice wouldn’t tremble when I got back. I didn’t cry at my mom’s funeral until I was alone, granted if hers was open casket, I would have lost it. It couldn’t be though, my father told me she didn’t look the same because of her injuries. My father’s was open casket I didn’t cry period. Not when I said goodbye and not even when I was alone and would allow myself to.  
        There’s a rustling behind the counter as Paul approaches me. Considering I’m at the counter of the bar, I’m going to get a drink. Nothing out of the ordinary. I come here frequently whether it’s by myself or with Roy and the others. I don’t lift my head up to look at him, I just mutter with my face still against the counter buried in my arms. “The usual, Paul,” I mutter. I just need a drink and I can drowned out my thoughts and stop moping around.  
        There’s a bit of silence. “Um, I don’t know what your usual is,” says a heavy New Jersey accent. I raise my head a bit and let out a small gasp seeing Paul’s daughter instead standing behind the counter. “You know, considering I’m not Paul.” I’m still a bit in shock seeing Paris herself standing in front of me. Her luscious hair falls down to her wave and her skin is fair. I’ve known what she looks like, considering I have been drawing her for that last several months but to see here standing right before me is like seeing her completely new. I can see her eyes and they’re a dark brown. She has dark red lipstick on perfectly and her eyes have rather bold lashes and dramatic makeup. Her sleeveless top fits nicely on her and I can see a bit of her stomach where it rises up. And her skinny jeans as always have rips up and down the pant legs. She’s the bad ass version of Snow White with Rapunzel-length hair. I’m still in shock Paris is standing in front of me and I actually spoke to her when I realized time might have fallen still for me as I gawk at her but she’s still standing there a bit concerned at me staring. “If you truly need my father to serve you a drink, I can call him back down here or you can tell me what you usually have?”   
        She puts on a smile and I snap out of it and my mouth starts saying words. “Eh, Kamikaze on the rocks.”  
        “See, that wasn’t so hard,” she teases before going back to get it.   
        I rest my chin down on my folded arms on the counter and look at her. How can a person be this beautiful? She’s graceful in her stride and balances on her toes as she walks behind the counter in ankle boots with stiletto heels while mixing the drink. Maybe she is the physical being of the cure for depression, or maybe she’s just pouring it a cocktail glass right now. She places it on the counter and slides it down towards me. I grab it with my hands then down it and relax a bit. I know it doesn’t work that quickly so it’s a placebo effect. At this point, I don’t care what fixes me as long as I’m not so damn melancholy anymore.   
        “I’ve seen you around before,” Paris says. I glance up at her. “You come in here a lot with your friends but if it’s just you, it tends to be in the day and you’re usually drawing.   
        “Oh, yeah I do that,” I answer awkwardly.   
        “What’s your name, guy?” she asks, flipping a chair around and sitting down, leaning forward on the backing.   
        “Cole, you?” I ask for the sake of being polite.   
        “Bernie but I prefer to go by Paris, it’s more appealing.”  
        “Bernie as in Bernadette?” I try to play off like I’m clever rather than like the idiot I was last time when the others explained it to me.  
        “Yep,” she nods along.  
        “Well, I think Bernadette is a good name, it’s rare and I find that long, unique names grow on you and adds good character.”   
        “Trust me, Cole, you don’t know what it’s like having a weird name,” she mutters.  
        I sit up and smile at her. “Well, I kind of do.” She looks at me and raises an eyebrow in a challenging but friendly manner. “I go by Cole because it’s easier to pronounce. My full name is Nikolaevan.” Her eyes widen with excitement and she giggles slightly. I put on a half smile. “So, yes, I do know what it’s like and believe me when I say I like your name.”  
        “I like yours too. Definitely the first time I’ve met someone with that name.”  
        “Yeah, my mother named me.”  
        “Same, technically. Yeah, my mom wanted a boy and she was set on naming her kid Bernard,” Paris pours herself a shot and she drinks it. “And it didn’t help the doctors told my parents I was a boy. They clearly were mistaken.”  
        “So after you were born they decided they weren’t going to change your name?” I ask.  
        Paris runs her fingers through her hair and looks up at me through her eyelashes. “I don’t know, my mom really wanted her son to be named Bernard but she never even found out she had a girl.” I tilt my head to the slide. “She died from childbirth and I’m their only child so...”  
        “Oh,” I mutter in realization. What am I supposed to say to that?  
        “It’s all good. My dad was really upset but he knew how excited my mom was to have me so he took care of me. He’s a good guy,” she says. I recall the many times Paul has served me drinks. I’ve seen his wrist before and it’s been a bit disturbing to know his tattoo is “it hurts” but now I guess that makes sense. Not that I’ll ever get to experience it but it’s a safe know childbirth is excruciating. And now my mind is thinking of childbirth and I particularly don’t want to at the moment so I backtrack on my thoughts and ponder over tattoos. That’s when curiosity sneaks into my head and I glance at Paris’s wrist.   
        On her arm, there is a red bandanna wrapped around her forearm and tied securely. “Is your arm okay?” I ask, gesturing to the wrap.   
        “Hmm?” She glances down. “Oh, yeah, I’m good.”  
        “Are you covering your tattoo?” I ask dumbfounded when I see her other arm is not wrapped and tattooless.   
        “Yeah,” she says pusillanimously. “Um, it’s, I don’t want people to know my tattoo and I don’t tell them it either.”   
        I raise my eyebrows at her because not once in the 23 years of my life have I met someone who kept their tattoo a secret. We tell people our tattoos and let them know so it’s confirmed whether to have feelings for them or not. We don’t keep our tattoos a secret. It’s not even frowned upon simply because no one does it. Why on Earth would she… “May I ask why?”  
        “It’s nothing bad, don’t worry,” she reassures, probably for the apprehensive look struck on my face. “One of my friends does this too.”  
        “So it’s like a bet or something?”  
        “No, no, um. It’s really hard to explain. He, uh, he is the most inspirational person I have ever encountered in my life and he has the most beautiful philosophies for everything. He doesn’t tell people his tattoo and when I first heard that, like you, I had to ask him why. The reason he gave me…” She trails off and ponders for a minute. “I have never met anyone like him before. He told me why and it made me want to do the same.”  
        “What was his reason?”  
        She gives her head a little shake and sighs. “I could never explain it the way he did. I know I’ll mess it up and it won’t be the same.”  
        “You make this guy sound like some legend,” I say joking.  
        “Oh, Flynn Nova is a legend. God goes to him for advice. Or Flynn Nova is God himself.” I smile softly and she pours me another drink. “If you ever meet him, be open to conversation. He’ll help you.”  
        I take the shot. “And what makes you think I need help?” I question.   
        “Because you’re troubled,” she answered flatly. I open my mouth to object but she cuts me off. “You don’t need to deny it or defend yourself. It’s okay. I won’t pry nor will I insist on a hypothetical matter.”  
        I look at her for a minute and try to configure what I’m going to say to her. “You are something,” I end up replying with. Good one, genius.  
        “And what would that something be?”  
        “You’re very straight forward and to the point. You don’t sugarcoat anything and you’re very honest. I like that about you. You also don’t push and feel entitled to know every aspect about someone’s life and if there’s something wrong, you don’t feel you have every right to know. You get that sometimes, it’s not something you get to know right away but later on, first in bits and pieces and then with time you get everything. But even when you do know something, you allow yourself open to be wrong. You’re a good people person and there’s not a lot of those I know.” I rest my head back down after I finished my rant of excessive talking. I may have gotten carried away but I can’t really take my words back out of the air.  
        “I’m not stating this as an insult but do you have a lot friends?” she asks softly.   
        “I have Roy, I’ve known the guy basically all my life. I come in here with him, the tall one with dirty blond hair?” She nods along remembering who I’m referring to. “The others are cool but I wouldn’t say they’re my friends. They’re Roy’s and I kind of just hang out with them. I’ve never had a lot of friends before, I just push people away in the end.”  
        “Well, from what you said earlier, it seems they’re the ones pushing you away from themselves. It’s not your fault you don’t socialize that much if everyone around you doesn’t know how to. It doesn’t mean you’re broken, everyone around you is.”   
        I smile at her softly. “You always this good with people?” I ask.  
        “Nah, I learned that here,” she says, gesturing to the bar. “My dad had a bar back home in Jersey but when I turned 18 four years ago, we moved to this city. Let me tell you, you guys are very different here. It never really occurred to me in a America, most big cities are on the buy the oceans,” she says.  
        I could easily ramble to her explaining most people came to America and stayed by the bodies of water for industrial purposes but that’s pretty boring and will prove how lame I am and I would prefer to listen to her talk. I could listen to her forever. I love her accent and the way she pronounces every word. Her vowels are all drawn out and the consonants are rounded off in a heavy mutter and a mix of slang. “Well, welcome to the Midwest and the one lone city smack dab in the middle of it all.”   
        She giggles and runs her hand through her hair again. “Yeah, so we came this city and he opened up the bar here. My dad told me all the best ways to have a conversation with people so if there’s one thing I’m good at besides making drinks it’s talking to strangers.”  
        “What sort of things did he teach you?”   
        “My dad used to say if a customer wants to talk, let them. Always agree, nod along, and make the occasional eye contact. If they ask for advice, provide some. But if they don't want to talk, don't insist otherwise they'll get ticked and walk out. Then you lose some potential profit. Everything he taught me socially I guess was in the name of business but it does the same amount of good. And over the years here, I’ve come to see people like it when I talk because I sound different.”  
        “Well, you’re not wrong there. I like your voice,” I admit.  
        “Thanks,” she smiles. “Are you feeling better, Cole?”  
        “What makes you think I needed to?”  
        “Like I said early, you are clearly a troubled guy” I put my head back on my arms and look up at her. “Hey, man, if you don't want to discuss something, best I don't open that can of worms.”   
        “Paris, what makes you so sure I'm troubled?” I ask. If I got TROUBLED written on my forehead, it’d be best to know so I could wash it off. If it's nothing obvious I could fix with myself, then there’s nothing I can do if she’s intuitive.   
        “If you weren't troubled,” she starts and leans on the counter right in front of me, “then what's a pretty boy like you stumbling into the bar soaked from the rain all alone at 1 in the morning?” She tilts her head to the side every so slight and parts her lips in a gently smile. “If there was nothing wrong, you'd either be asleep or coming in here with you buddies or a hot date, not alone. If you were doing as fine as you look, you would be drinking for good memories, not with the intention to forget.”  
        I sit up and stretch my back a bit. “Well, you got me there, darling.”   
        “It’s late, go home, get some rest. Come back tomorrow and draw something.”   
        I take out my wallet and pay her my 20. She goes back to the register and I wave her off. “Keep the change,” I tell her.   
        “What? No, no, don’t do that,” she starts.   
        “12 something is for the drinks, the rest for the talk. You were right. I was troubled but not as much anymore.” I get up and push in the chair before I start making my way home. I turn around stepping backwards and wave to her. My back hits the door and it swings open as I spin on my heel and step outside. Man, Paris is something, I was right about saying that earlier I guess. The rain has stopped falling from the heavens but now trickles off the building tops and tree, pitter patting down to the sidewalk and street. Earbuds and music on shuffle: “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen. I pick up my steps and sway with the music and snapping my fingers in time with the rhythm. If I wasn’t in public, I would sing along loud and proud but I’d be stopped by the cops and arrested for public intoxication even though I know I'm not anywhere close to drunk. That would kill my mood improvement guaranteed.   
        By the time I make it into my house and kick off my shoes, it doesn’t matter how late it is, I’m not sleeping right now. Roman however still is so I turn down my energy. Upstairs. Bathroom. Brush Teeth. Shower. Dry off. Change clothes. Room.   
        I shut my door and hop over to my desk. I feel like writing now. With my earbuds, Freddie Mercury sings while I finish up Kelsey and Tyler’s date night. Considering I left off close to where I marked the cut off for the second book, I finish right there in there. Well, maybe not right then because the sun starts coming up as I send Martha Hayes the email stating I’ve completed and the attachments of my work.   
        I hit send and lean back in my chair stretching out. Shutting down my computer, I roll off the chair and fall on the floor. Well, that didn’t work out. I glare at my bed seeing it less than a foot away but still too far now that I’m on the floor. I can sleep here.   
        After telling myself countless time over the years to invest in blackout curtains, one would think I would have already done that. I know where blackout currents are sold too so did I buy any? Nope, the sun blinds me and I sit up sore. Why haven’t I bought any yet? More importantly, why didn’t I just move to my bed? It’s not even a foot away. I get up and roll back on my mattress, burrowing under my comforter and pillows. My backside hurts and I realize I slept with my phone in my back pocket again. Lovely. I lie back and plug it into the charger before going to sleep again. I have work in a few hours. I might as well sleep so I’m not a zombie for the next eight hours. Well, if anything, I would prefer being the zombie rather than the melancholy mope I have been lately. I would question myself if I’m in the wrong for recovering so quickly after my father’s funeral when with my mom, it took months on end opposed to a week. However, I don’t want to revert in my mood so for better or for worse, I don’t think about it.


	6. "Excuse Me, Darling."

        Because Roy, the others and I are regulars at Eastern Paris, it’s safe to say we’re good friends with Paul and his daughter. We keep them updated about our daily lives and our careers. Paris said she’s reading my story and I am quite flattered. She told me she was never big on graphic novels but she does like mine and bought her own copy of both books and enjoys them a lot. I make a daily trip to the bar for drawing but I don’t necessarily buy a drink unless it’s been a rough day. Paris says I’m welcome any time, I’m more than a regular to her and her father.  
        Paul asked the others how their album was coming along and they told him they’ve finished recording everything and are starting a new project while looking for a record company. That’s when he offered them a Friday night to perform at the bar. Fridays are when there is live music playing and Paul scheduled them on the next open Friday, at the end of the month. Because the others would be busy with their preparations, I got more time to work than socialize.   
        I spent 8 hours a day working at the store and it was just busy work more or less. Stocking shelves, locating products for customers, and discussing a common love for art with those who come in frequently. There’s one seventeen year old named McKayla who buys new supplies once a week. Every time she comes in, we make small talk and I tell her about any new material we have in stock. She wants to be an artist and she showed me some of her works on her phone. The girl is really talented and I hope she goes far. There’s this one dude and every time he comes in, his hair is a different color. So far, it’s been three different types of green, four different shades of blue, purple, and red.   
        After my shift, I head home and do that errands, checking to make sure all the bills and taxes are done on time and correctly. The last thing I need is any stipulation stating there’s a problem. It’s stress I really don’t need. Make dinner, do the dishes, tidy up, and make sure my laundry’s clean. Considering it’s just Roman and I at home, there’s hardly much to tend to.   
        Being an adult is not what I expected. Sure, I was aware there would be actual work to do like taxes and having responsibilities but there’s other aspects I was never prepared for. Unlike most people, I have been blessed with multiple scholarships and parents who could pay for my education. I don’t have student debts and I’m not going to let my brother have any either. Roman and I have all our parents life savings in our names and a house already paid for. In high school, I worried of living in debt in a crummy apartment I could barely pay for and I was even more terrified everyone who told me my career was impractical was going to be right. I was scared I would end up in the cycle of working in a job equivalent to scraping a cheese grader against my forehead. But the transition from adolescent to adult went smoother than assumed. Maybe I’m just blessed and got an easier life than most or maybe I was prepared and I can handle it because of so. However, just because I have an easy life doesn’t mean living is easy for me.   
        I tell myself I shouldn’t think I have a terrible life. I got a higher education while there are thousands of children who never been to a school in their life. Hell, I can use computer software while there are adults who don’t know how to read their native language or write their own name. I have a home and I never have to worry about going hungry. I have a day job I enjoy and a career working out. I have no reason to feel like my life sucks but at the same time, I still feel melancholy and discontent.   
        I lost my mom when I was 22 and my dad at 23. I know there are kids who lost both their parents at 6 but I still feel like I’m too young to lose them. What keeps me awake at night is I’ll never get to see my parents face when I meet my soulmate. I won’t get to introduce her to my parents. I can imagine my mom all bubbly and excited when she found out. I bet my mother would have made raspberry vatrushka when I told her. I’ll never get to see my parents at my wedding and they’ll never be grandparents. If I ever have kids, they will only know my parents through the stories I tell them.   
        It’s moments like these where I start contemplating my life and every aspect of it. I haven’t even met my soulmate yet and I’m getting depressed over the lives of my children? I’m 23, I should not be thinking about kids, not while I still mentally consider myself one at least. 

        Walking home from work, I listen to “Smooth Criminal”. I step in the house still humming along and find Roman lying sprawled out on the floor. “Roman!” I rip my earbuds out and kick off my shoes.   
        He opens his eyes and glances up at me “Hmm? Hi,” he says.   
        I go over to him. “Are you okay? What happened?” I ask concerned.  
        “Oh, nothing. I just laid down and realized how far away the ceiling away is from down here. Everything looks very different.” He raises his hand and I help him up to his feet and he laughs. “Whoa, headrush.”  
        “Sit down,” I say, guiding him to a pulled out chair. “Did you fall?”  
        “No, I’m all good. Just laying around.” I shake my head at him. “What? It’s not a big deal. Do you really care about the dirt from the floor getting on my clothes, which I’m going to wear when I’m on my bed thus getting my bed sheets dirty like Dad does?” he asks dragging it out exasperated.   
        “I, no,” I falter realizing he said ‘does’. “Just, it’s slightly unsettling to come home and see you on the ground. Usually, it means someone passed out and there’s something wrong.”  
        Roman looks at me and puts on a smile. “It’s okay, Nikki, you know we’re okay?”  
        “Yeah, but still.” I put a hand on his shoulder then walk over to the kitchen to get some water and substantial food to eat. “You want Chinese food?” I call out hopping on the counter then opening my water bottle.   
        “Sure, sounds good. Are you going to the bar tonight or is that next Friday?”  
I lean back against the wall and put the cap back on. “It’s tonight,” I tell him. Low key, slightly irritated Roman is still 20 and can’t join us. Give it another month and a half and he’ll be 21. “You and your friends going out?”  
        “Yeah, there’s this movie David said was good so that’s what we’re doing.”  
        “What movie?” I ask.  
        “Uh..” Roman furrows his eyebrows together and his eyes widen. “Well, that’s a good question. It’s this space movie war thing with...that one girl.”  
        “Oh, I know what movie you’re talking about!”  
        He looks up at me. “Oh, you do? What’s it called?” I roll my eyes and start laughing. “What?”  
        I glare at him smugly in the corner of my eye. “Yeah, the ‘space movie war thing with that one girl’ is very specific. I know exactly what you’re talking about. Thank you for that beautiful summary.”  
        “Why?” he asks, throwing his hands at me. “Why do you do this, Nikki?” I laugh swinging my legs side to side while Roman starts clearing his belongings off the table.  
        The two of us eat an early dinner while talking about our day. Apparently Roman fought a war with a wasp that broke into our house this morning. I don’t understand his fear of bugs. I mean, sure scorpions are deadly and yeah, wasps are the bitches from hell and let’s be real, any spider bigger than my foot is a problem because then worse comes to worse, I can’t step on it. However, there is no reason to be afraid considering where we live. Scorpions are in the desert and since we have seasons, we are not in said desert. Wasps are nasty but if you don’t aggravate them, they typically don't sting. And the spider issues, well, all the ones I’ve seen are not anywhere close to a concerning size yet so we’re all good. Roman although doesn’t see it that way. This valiant battle between him and wasp took up 10 minutes of his morning and he almost lost but in a stunning turn of events, the wasp flew out the door.   
        I leave before Roman so after clearing off the table, I shower and get dressed for tonight. While putting on my cargo jacket, I send Roy a text informing him I’m on my way then I head out. Part of me contemplates if I should drive but knowing me, I’m going to have a few drinks tonight since it’s been almost a month. Walking down the sidewalk and my earbuds in, I sway along to “I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For”. I’d say as days go for me now, this one is adequate and I have high hopes for tonight. I’m excited for the others and I know this will be awesome.   
        Reed and Sylvia bought sound recording equipment and they are officially down recording their first album. There was one song they wanted me to play piano for as they mentioned early. Going over to their place and recording it reminded me how much I missed playing. We’ve had our piano forever and as a little kid, I would always pretend to be Beethoven. Pre-elementary school Nikki would stand on the piano bench and press down the pristine, white keys with his whole palm. I thought it was the most entertaining thing in the world while my mother saw it as adorable. After a few months maybe, I started playing the keys in order to make scales and skipping certain notes in scales to make patterns. The sound of the keys and the blending of notes in harmony made me laugh. After a few years in elementary school, I started taking piano lessons. At seven years old, I went in my first competition. I didn’t win anything and I was rather disappointed but there were too many people to cry in front of so I held in in. There was this one girl who was dressed like Christmas morning and she had a bright red, silk ribbon in her hair and shiny black shoes. I remember she played a lovely song and she received a blue ribbon. In that moment, watching this little girl admire her pretty blue ribbon, I knew I wanted to be good at piano. So I practiced piano more at my lessons and tried really hard to learn new notes and remember the keys. The following year, I did win but my ribbon was not blue, it was red. I have nothing against red other than the fact it’s not blue. Refusing defeat for a third year in a row, I asked my piano instructor Miss Kelly for a really challenging song so she gave me two. The first one she told me was an appropriate and reasonable challenge for me to learn but knowing how desperately I wanted to get better, she gave me a piece out of my league.   
        Miss Kelly told me to first start with Beethoven’s “Für Elise” before I moved on. Looking at the sheet music, I thought it was rather simple looking, then again, I blew my ego out of proportions after set on winning a blue ribbon. Returning home proud with my new music, I went to the piano, sat myself down and looked at the notes. I found middle C and counted the correct number of keys and tried playing but I couldn’t figure it out. My last year piece was a version of “Ode To Joy” so this was definitely a step up but Miss Kelly thought I could get there if I really wanted to. After all, I was nine years old and I was super cool so I could manage...with some help. My mother played an audio of “Für Elise” for me so I knew what it was to sound like. While following along with the audio with my sheet music, I realized ideally it wasn’t as difficult as I perceived on my first failed attempt. My heart was set on the blue ribbon, giving up was not an option. I knew if I could master the second song, undoubtedly I’d win. However, Miss Kelly always told me learning music is a learning process and while some may be naturally better than others, no one is naturally good. I had to start small and work my way up so before I could get the second piece, I had to work on the first.   
        I started noticing two patterns in “Für Elise”. My mom made a copy of my sheet music, one for me to annotate. I broke the song up into sections and then analyzed each section to find the patterns. If I could get them both down, I had a majority of the song already completed.   
        The first pattern exhausted my right hand. The left side of the piano wasn’t played as much and my hand pressed three keys from left to right in intervals. The right side was much more difficult. After a few frustrated outbursts and aching right wrist, I was able to play the pattern. There was limited variation in the keys so my hand remained relatively in the same location, making it much easier. The second pattern was only an extended and more repetitive version of the first one so it took less time to figure out since I technically already knew the basis. But one third into the song, everything gets trippy and very fast. When the pattern took me one a few days to learn how to play, I was losing hope on seeing the blue ribbon after a week and still not knowing how to play.   
        At my next lesson, Miss Kelly had an important visitor when I got there. She told me to go to the piano and start my warms ups while I waited for her. I completed the scales but she still wasn’t back yet so I got bored and started fiddling around. Even back then, I my love for music pertained to the same genre. My mom and I listened to “The Final Countdown” in the car ride over and it was still stuck in my head. I thought how cool it would be if I could play it on the piano. I went up the scale playing each note while humming the opening out loud. It didn’t take my long to realize it was a high pitched note and soon I found it: F sharp. After locating the opening note, it didn’t take long before I learned the intro of the song. When Miss Kelly came back in, she was astounded I was playing it and asked where I found the music. I didn’t understand at the time why she was dumbfounded after I informed her I figured it out myself. I also didn't understand at the time why she was so proud of me for learning “Für Elise” even though I seriously struggled to play it at half the tempo and ceaselessly erred what I did know and couldn’t even play the whole song. However, her elated encouragement inspired me to continue. Miss Kelly was very proud of me, proving my mom wasn’t just making up compliments as mothers sometimes do to their own children.   
        I worked out my flukes in the patterns then started working on the two tricking parts. The ending one didn’t seem so bad, my left hand was pressing the same key over and over rapidly with my right hand was making zigzag scales up and down the keys. After learning it, it was very fun to play. Then there was the tricky part to learn still. Trying to play this part involved a specific amount of warm up and thinking. If my hand wasn’t ready or it was stiff, there was no way I could play it and if it was overworked and exhausted, I couldn’t manage it either. Also if I was phased out, I would mess up however if I concentrated too much, I would end up focusing more on focusing than actual focusing as oddly as it sounds. I had to be very patient with myself in order to learn it.  
        Within two months, I learned how to play “Für Elise”. The hard part after learning was then playing it up at tempo. Hours on end for consecutive days at a time, I played interminable over and over and over, building my muscle memory. My relentless dedication to this one song didn’t burn out because I wanted the blue ribbon. Imagining myself playing the piano and hearing my named called and getting a ribbon, a blue ribbon, I kept playing. Merely after three days, with nothing but hours of this one song playing from beginning to end on repeat like a broken record, I had muscle memory mastered. There were times I completely phased while staring vacantly at the unneeded sheet music in front my me. My eyes glazed over blurred my vision in a haze and my brain wasn’t processing anything with a fried attention span. My focus was burned out but I knew how to play nevertheless. I didn’t need to pay attention anymore or even think to be able to play the song. It was getting slow after five days so I quickened the pace playing it faster and faster trying to get up to the tempo. I was determined by my next piano lesson, Miss Kelly would be very proud of me.   
        I sat on the bench waiting for her to be ready. I didn’t even open my binder, I just went for it, playing without thinking or concentrating. My fingers glided over the keys to quick for my brain to process the notes I was hitting yet I still knew it was right. Eyes locked on my right hand, I went back and forth over the keys playing “Für Elise” like there was no tomorrow. When I finished the song, I looked up at Miss Kelly and her mouth was hanging open, which either means I did very good or absolutely horrendous. Thankfully, it was the first reason.  
        Considering there was plenty of time before the performance to learn another song with the amount of dedication within me, I was ready for the second piece: “William Tell Overture” composed by Rossini. Listening to the audio of the song was jubilant. It reminded me of a racing horse galloping valiantly on a quest. I was excited to play however my eyes skimmed the page and saw the true meaning of insanity and it gave me thrills.   
        Unlike Beethoven, this song had a more than two patterns, I found seven and a handful of unique parts of transitioning between them all. First I dedicated myself to learning the rhythm of quarter and eighth notes and I tried practicing the intro afterwards. By the time my next piano lesson came around, I could barely play the one pattern. Miss Kell reassured me I was doing well and struggling is apart of learning and getting better. I tried my best to be patient. Slowly I got five out of seven patterns correct but the last two were impossible for me to understand. There were too many notes all around and my hands seemed too small to play it. By the time the song was only half over, I was already tired. My time was running out to learn this song and despite the progress I was still making, I knew it wouldn’t be by the performance.   
        At my last lesson before the show, Miss Kelly saw my disappointment in unable to finish the song yet coming so close to learning it. She asked me if I still knew “Für Elise”. Instead of answering her, I turned around and started playing it. The only thing I forgot was how much I liked this song and compared to learning “William Tell Overture” this song was easy now. When I finished, Miss Kelly told me to play this song instead. I wasn’t proud of myself because I knew the only way for me to win was to play the hardest song and very good at it. But now I didn’t have a choice. The performance was next week and I couldn’t play Rossini. At home, I practiced Beethoven again so I was ready the night of the concert.   
        At nine years old, I played “Für Elise” and I won in first place. I didn’t expect it to happen and I was really sad as they were calling up. Since I didn’t think first place was an option, I was in the honorable mentions or in 5th through 2nd so I assumed I didn’t win anything this year. But they called my name for first place and I got a blue ribbon. Miss Kelly was very proud of me and that night, my mom took me to get chocolate ice cream with raspberries to celebrate.   
        I learned William Tell the following year and played it when I was ten. I also won a blue ribbon. As the years continued, I kept learning new songs and I started having more concerts. After ten, Miss Kelly took me out of the junior competition and was able to put in with the varsity. At eleven years old, I was the youngest, the next youngest was a fourteen year old girl. I didn’t come in first place but I did receive honorable mention. I didn’t mind losing though, the competition was very hard and I got a blue ribbon at a different a winter concert. “I played Fantasy of Simple Gifts” and won in first.   
        My favorite performance was the spring pops concert because I got to play “Bohemian Rhapsody” and I had the time of my life for the six-minute duration of the song. The following year at the pops concert I played the official notes of “The Final Countdown”.  
        I was really good at piano but not a lot of people knew that; I kept it as a hidden talent. Ray knew because he attended what would be my last performance competition. Miss Kelly found her soulmate when I was fifteen and the following year she was getting married and then moving away. She was very proud of me and told me I was always going to be her favorite student. Part of me wondered if she was just saying that because she says it to everyone but she told me she taught me for the longest time out of any other kid and I was the youngest was she ever taught. She told me to keep practicing at home after she left. For my final concert, I played Carmina Burana "O Fortuna". I absolutely love that song because it’s the most epic power music in the world. If I ever seized a castle or stormed a battle field with thousands of warriors behind, that's the song I want in the background. I won first place and got a blue ribbon. It didn’t matter how many years later it was since I started, I still wanted the blue ribbon for the sake of it’s color rather than it’s meaning. Sure, being quote unquote “the best” was nice but the color blue was better I felt.   
        After Miss Kelly left, my mom offered to find another teacher but I didn’t really want one. If I was younger, it’d be different because I still needed to learn but at 16, I could read several different staffs fluently and I knew so many pieces by heart I felt unnecessary. It would also depress me having someone else because I really liked my first teacher. I continued playing new pieces I found and I started learning some of the music I listened to like Aerosmith and Queen. But something happened to our piano at home. It broke and it couldn’t be tuned anymore. Technically, I could still use it but I wasn’t tone deaf. Every key I hit, I knew was wrong and nothing sounded correct. It got to the point where I couldn’t play it because everything was flat or the wrong note. I stopped playing and we ended up getting rid of it entirely. I stopped playing when I was 17 and for the longest time, I was really depressed because of it. We never got a new one so I learned to move on.   
        When Roy gave me the sheet music, it took no time to relearn how to play and figure out their song. The melody was quiet in the the beginning and after the first 50 mesures, there was a section where it was just the piano and lyrics before the bass guitar came back in the the other instruments. Recording this song took two attempts to get it right. I never played piano to accompany anyone so this was a new experience. The blending of other instruments melted together so flawlessly and Reed has a damn good voice. 

        I step inside the bar and walk over to the counter. Paris stands over drying off shot glasses when she looks up and sees me. “Hey, Cole,” she smiles.   
        “Hiya,” I reply sliding into the bar stool.   
        “You want something?” she offers.  
        “Not now but knowing me, I’ll come back later.”   
        “That sounds like you,” she laughs. “I finished your third book by the way.”  
        A smile grows on my face. “How’d you like it?”  
        “It’s quality work and I enjoy it a lot. So Tyler lost the bet?” she asks wondering. A month ago at work, there were new employees going through training so I for twos weeks I was only scheduled 20 hours. With my extra time, I spent nonstop working on the third story. I finished it very quickly left off on the third book with Tyler and Kelsey saying goodbye after he walked her to her door. Walking back to his own place, he was thinking how great the evening was and how tomorrow was going to be even better but the more he thought about the night and Kelsey, the more he started to realize he may have already lost the bet. By the time his room, he knows he’s already fallen for her.   
        “Well, Kelsey doesn’t know so technically he hasn’t yet.”  
        “Ugh, I hate dramatic irony.” Paris whines. “It’s so frustrating. Are they going to end up together or does Kelsey win?” I press my lips together and give a half smile. “Oh, come on, Cole. Don’t do that.”  
        “Do what?” I ask, pretending to be confused.   
        “Oh, you know what. Wipe that smug look off your pretty face. Do they?”  
        “Do they what? Do they graduate college? Yes, they graduate in the same year in fact.”   
        Paris rolls her eyes and throws the towel at me. It falls on my head and covers my face completely. I hear her laughing to herself. “Hey, I think you got yourself blackout curtains now!”  
        I yank the towel off and throw it back at her. “Oh, shut up,” I mutter.   
        Paris puts the towel in the dirty pile and gets a new one to start drying the martini glasses. “Come one, please tell me,” she begs. “Do they end up together?”  
        “I don’t know, do they?”   
        She looks up at me pouting. “Oh, yes you do.”  
        “Actually, I really don’t know yet” I admit. “I haven’t planned the ending yet so anything’s possible.”  
        “Wait, are you serious?” I nod and she ponders for a moment. “So, they could end up together?”  
        “They could or they could not,” I reply.   
        “You’re killing me,” she says annoyed. “But in all truth, I love the story a lot. You are really good and I love your artwork.”  
        “Thank you, Paris.”

        As Friday nights go, the bar was full. All the better for Roy and the others. I have a feeling tonights going to be great. Maybe I’m right or maybe I know there will be alcohol later, whatever. As my days go now, I could use some cheerful times. Up on the stage in the back part of the bar, I see Sylvia and Holly setting up for tonight. Holly has her hair tied back in some fancy braid and has a Rock ‘n’ Roll shirt on with skinny jeans. Sylvia has a long sleeve and a flannel tied around her waist. I sit on the stool watching them set up and I can see the excitement mixed with nervousness inside. This is their first show technically.   
        When the others come up on the stage in the bar, they get adjusted and Reed brings the mic to a comfortable level. “Hello, everyone,” he says in a bashful voice and giving a small wave with his hand. “My name is Reed Demopoulos and my sister Holly plays the drums.” Holly brushes her ponytail behind her shoulders and gives a nervous smile. “And we have Leroy Karpwood as well as Sylvia Thomas here with us. We’re in a band called Epiphanot sp let’s play some music, yeah?”  
        There’s a few cheers from the people at the bar and small amounts of clapping. Reed turns back and looks at the others, giving them a nod. Roy and Sylvia sit on their stool holding their instruments ready. Roy and Holly start off, Holly keeping time with the quick beats on the cymbal while Roy plays lightning sixteenth notes on the B string with his fingers at the frets close to the base of the neck. After three measures, Sylvia strums across the lower strings on her bass and then she plays with Roy. My eyes lit up hearing the sound of the song now completely full. Besides the one I recorded with them, I have only heard Rising Sunset however that was right after they wrote t when we were in college. There were still flukes and they were missing the bassist. Just a couple years later, they found perfection in this piece.   
With only 15 seconds of an opening, more than half the bar already directed its attention towards them to stop and listen. There’s a smile plastered to my face and a fire burning in my eyes gazing at those four. This song I know has a long intro before the lyrics come. By the looks of it, I don’t think anyone minds. Their eyes are fixated up there with a spark of intrigue and their mouths hanging opening with lost of words. Reed taps his foot to the beat on the drums and then he starts singing. I can tell they edited the lyrics. Years ago I thought the song was really good. I didn’t think it was possible for it to get any better; looks like I thought wrong. 

After working hard or just waking up,  
you're here and you're you, and that's always enough  
To see the beauty of falling red skies,  
at the end of the day, your old memories rise.

They twist in the grass that held bare footed steps,   
rusting in leaves that the autumn winds left.   
So watch for the ending and watch for the rest,   
watch for both sides of the rising sunset.  
   
Over the hills and under the stars,   
all that we can be is all that we are.  
Hoping is key for remembering life,  
which is crucial to grow and appreciate time

It might not always hold dear in our hearts,  
the time we revere might just rip us apart   
in its emptiness, hungry for light to consume,  
this selfish black hole that will always have room. 

For a fear or a million reasons to hate,  
so when you feel this huge cliff and you want to fall, wait.  
Wait in the silence, thought hard it may seem,  
 the daybreak won't break you and won't really leave. 

Wait for a time when u try to feel safe,  
 even if it takes time from every day.   
Open your mind and open your eyes,   
the dying embers of sunsets might start to rise.

        The melody continues on, the bass and guitar still playing the sixteenth notes in sync to the beating drums. Roy nods his head along to the rhythm and Sylvia remains focused on her fingers making sure she plays the right notes in tempo. After the bridge of the song, there lyrics repeat again. Reed’s voice is very smooth in the way he sings the lyrics. This isn’t one of their more moving songs yet there’s so much emotion I sense behind his voice. The amount of passion they put into their music, they put their heart and soul into their songs and it pours out of their voice and in their instruments. Seeing them play together with a crowd brings a smile to my face. I have already got to experience my childhood dream by holding a published copy of my own graphic novel. It’s their turn to be on a stage playing the melodies they’ve come up with out of the blue and singing the lyrics they arrange at 3 a.m. All the hours they put into working on their music paid off for this moment. It’s not stupid of them to think they couldn’t make this a reality and it’s not embarrassing to play music. This is what they wanted to do their whole life and it’s only the beginning.  
        When the songs concludes, there’s a hell of a lot more cheering this time. Reed beams up. “Thanks, guys,” he says and looks at Roy unsure of what else to say. Turning back to the mic, he gives a small wave. “We have another one, this one is called Adornment.” Reed starts singing right as Roy plays the first notes. They are much slowly compared to the last song and his voice is soft. The song makes you feel the ache in your heart and the shake in your sorrows. 

Smile they tell you, just smile they say.  
Be happy so sadness will just go away  
Like it doesn't exist when you choose not to choose it,   
Like the evil isn't real if you just refuse it.

Hope for the future while ignoring the now,  
Feeling the feelings that others allow,  
Since the truth is what's written by victors of war,  
Who sometimes forget what we really fought for.

        The tempo picks up and Sylvia starts playing in harmony with Roy. Holly starts playing and there’s a shift in tone of the songs. Opposed to being soft and nostalgic, it’s now empowering. The intro brings you sadness but the shifts grant you the strength to overcome what you didn’t realize you kept bottled inside. Reed’s voice becomes orotund with the resonant notes. Maybe what I’m saying doesn’t make sense but I’m describe music and music evokes emotions so does it matter if I don’t make sense? After all, emotions don’t ever and we feel them all the time.

In times of depression and heartbreak and stress,   
You find these conditions and label them less  
Than what you explain with the words you were taught,  
How math and your grades trumped wonder and thought.

Before childlike innocence turned into shame,  
Before looks dominated people over their name,  
Because humans are flawless yet always so flawed   
In the sense of our overpowering need to belong.

Need to have order and need to have peace,  
Yet the rules are still broken and war doesn't cease.  
Need all these people and hate them too much   
To really feel comfortable and loved to touch   
The heart of another and spread what we should,  
Fearing the "why" and "what if" and "what could"

Don't try to suppress the bad for the good   
Or the worst will be built where greatest once stood.  
Since the globe is a circle with balance that made  
The circle of life, the yin and the yang.   
We are not perfect, it's hard to pretend,  
To live through each day and not know the end   
of anything, ever, or know where it starts,   
hoping and praying and bleeding our hearts,   
for something that's bigger and better than us,   
there has to be something above, there must 

Be a being controlling the strings and the fate,  
So we're not left alone in our lonely dark hate,  
Hating the world and then hating ourself,  
Refusing the right to ask for one's help.  
Because asking is weak, if you need, then you take.   
If there's something you want, then there's something to make.  
Happiness isn't a place or a home,  
It's knowing that the person you are, you own.   
Yourself is a self that cannot be contained   
within barriers built for the empty remains   
of a skeleton sitting, forgotten, forlorn,   
but then next comes the moment that soul is reborn.

        The drums kick up the beat and Sylvia strums across the lower notes. The strings ring out and fade away slowly. The tempo resumes back to its opening, slow and melodic with a nostalgic feeling wrapped around it all. 

Never ignore the passion you have,   
or the way that you carry your heart in your hand,   
held out swiftly to care and eager to hold,   
what you might never see again, a story only once told

        The song concludes and by now the people up front clap loudly and someone in the crowd whistles loudly. Reed leans on the microphone stand smiling proudly and looks over his shoulders at the others. His sister twirls the drum sticks in air and Sylvia sits on the stool shyly while blushing. Roy sits calm but I know he’s mentally freaking out right now. I would be too if I was him. This is his childhood dream come true, this is the beginning of everything he’s wanted. Roy and I make eye contact and I smile brightly at him clapping my hands up higher and cheering. He flashes a smile at me and nods. “Thank you all, it means a great deal to us,” Reed says and waves his hand up. “Have a good night.” The others get up, Sylvia and Roy bringing their instruments, and head to the back.   
        I get up and maneuver through the crowd. I’ll have that drink I mentioned earlier to Paris now. I didn’t realize exactly how full the bar got since I came up to watch their performance. I guess as the night continues, more people came in but the ones inside never left; they stayed to watch their show.  
        “Sorry,” I say to a guy I bump shoulders with as I pass through the people. I bob and weave around the crowds stepping through the small spaces in this mass of people. I’ve never been claustrophobic but social anxiety has always been a thing. I put my hand up as I walk through doing my best not to hit anyone. I know they won’t really get mad if I apologize and if they do, well, I’m not going to see them after a minute so I don’t need to worry about annoying anyone. Although, I really hate to annoy someone.   
        A woman with a green dress, who clearly doesn’t know how to hold her alcohol, stumbles backward and flails into me. As a reflex, I grab her so she doesn’t end up on the floor and stand her up right on her feet. “Are you okay?” I ask her.  
        The girl laughs obnoxiously and almost snorts while falling over again. I hold her shoulders and try balancing her back on her feet. This is equivalent to trying to balance a dime on its side... “Hey yo, handsome!” the woman slurs with her eyes fluttering close. “What’s your tattoo say?”   
        I smile at her friendly and start shuffling away before she falls again. I don’t want to end up responsible for helping her again. I take two steps before I have another encounter with a stranger falling over me. Maybe it’s just one of those nights where people get a little more drunk than they usually do or maybe it’s because I’m completely sober right now so I notice it more, whatever. But there is a lot of ‘happy’ people flailing into me right now. At this point, I don’t care about getting a drink as much anymore as just having some personal space. There’s a group of friends clustered together and the lot of them are laughing and drinking loudly; I’m probably going to have to go either around or through them. Up ahead, I see Paris standing behind the counter chatting with a group of people sitting at the counter while sliding them drinks. While looking up, one of the girls backs into me. I try to slide around her but she steps in front of me again. "Excuse me, darling," I say and absentmindedly put a hand on her shoulder gently as I sneak past. I continue walking sliding my hand off her shoulder when my wrist pulls me back. The girl I bumped into snatches my wrist and she holds onto me in a death grip. Turning back to her, I look at her uneasy as her eyes are wider than an owl’s and her mouth is gaping opening. Jeez, I didn’t think she would be so offended for me calling her darling. I meant no derogatory while addressing her in such manner. Slowly I pull my arm back but she doesn’t budge. My ability to remain calm while interacting with strangers has timed out; my heart starts beating faster and I know it won't be long before I won’t be able to complete full sentences without stumbling over my words. “Can I help you?” I offer.   
        “It’s you,” she finally says gripping my wrist tighter. If I end up having my hand amputated because it’s lost circulation, I’ll be rather distressed considering I’m right handed and I need my hand to draw.   
        “Do we know each other?” I question when I glance down at her holding me. Her knuckles are white and she has a purple nail polish on. Then my eyes notice her wrist. Tattooed across her skin it reads “excuse me darling”.


End file.
